Dragon Age III:  Burning Horizon
by Medusa Davenport
Summary: Hawke gathers a new band of armed lunatics and goes to Orlais to prevent the outbreak of war as the Mage Revolts continue, the Templars desert the Chantry, and the Imperium threatens Thedas once again.  FHawke/Fenris, appearances from DA2 party members
1. Prologue

Okay, so this is the beginning of (oh help) a predictive fic about Dragon Age III. Hopefully it doesn't suck too much. I'm experimenting with the unreliable narrator Varric in this chapter and it's just the set-up. Anyway, because it's a sequel there won't be the same party members (sorry) but the old ones WILL definitely appear as they did throughout DA2 from Origins. If you want to see a few of the party members that will be appearing in the next chapters, check the bottom of the page.

**Warnings:** Varric narration, language, sequel fic

**_Disclaimer:_ I don't own anyone from Dragon Age, nor any part of the world. I don't own Battlestar Galactica or even the name Dualla, but I do own the four original party members I invented for the sake of this fic.**

_This takes place about 2-3 years after the Kirkwall Chantry gets blown up._

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><p>When the Chantry's Seeker leaves, Varric waits in his chair, listening calmly to her exchange outside. He waits for an hour after the last clank of departing armor fades into the distance, just to be safe. After all, he'd put a tail on him if he were them.<p>

If these Chantry folks knew Varric, they'd know that honesty and dishonesty go hand-in-hand with him. The small falsehoods he's peppered throughout the larger truths were accepted without question, so when the real lie came around, he dropped it with all his baldfaced skill. And they accepted that, too. Then again, that Seeker woman, one of those dragon-hunting Pentaghasts, yelled and threatened and called him a liar throughout the story, so he's not going to underestimate her. He can only hope she doesn't return the favor.

At last he gets to his feet, stretching sore limbs, and wanders outside. The Chantry folks caught him while he was asleep, so Bianca's safe at the Hanged Man where he left her. Thank the Ancestors for small graces, he thinks, as his sharp eyes flit around the street.

"It took you long enough, Dwarf," says a female voice behind him, that Nevarran voice that has become too familiar in the past few hours.

Varric sighs. "Son of a bitch," he mutters, wishing he had the lanky strength the broody elf did so he, too, could climb in and out of Hawke's bedroom window at will. Or that the bartender of the Hanged Man wasn't such a gossipy bitch. Or that the Chantry would just give up their idiot struggle to put things back the way they were and try to adapt to the changing times.

Pentaghast steps up beside him, folding her arms with a metallic clank. Like many of the dragon-hunting royalty of old, she wears an ornate shield and sword across her back, the hilt studded with rubies and wound in gold wires to create a handhold. "You are a fool if you think I believed your every word," she announces, amber eyes narrowing at him. "Take me to her."

"To who? Isabela? She's probably hungover in a brothel in Llomeryn right now," he answers, feigning stupidity.

Her metal-gauntleted hand cuffs the side of his head in a sharp motion, making him wince and clutch the boxed ear as it rings and pops. "Do not play coy with me, Dwarf," she snarls. "You know where she is, or you would not have waited for us to leave."

He sighs again. Damn perceptive women like Pentaghast, Aveline, and Hawke. They all knew how to get him into trouble, didn't they?

"Fine," he scowls at her, still rubbing his ear. "Just leave your armed lunatics behind, because I promise you that Hawke's armed lunatics are better than them." He fixes a faint smirk on her smooth face. "Then again, I wouldn't object to shooting a few of them. Like the guys who dragged me out of bed before dawn."

"I sent them away already," she replies with a wave of her hand that looks too like a noble dismissing a servant. "I knew you wouldn't come out of the Estate until they left."

"Clever girl," he mutters, eyeing her as he stalks over the bridge to Lowtown, wishing his dwarven legs could outrun her. Even if she wasn't trying to strongarm him into setting up Hawke for some Chantry ambush, he wouldn't like her because she's so damn authoritarian, demanding that others obey even her beliefs. Religious types never sat well with him. They're all crazy zealots of some kind or another, all willing to betray anyone in the name of their unprovable faith, as Anders proved.

In the end, the reason he slings Bianca to his back and leads the woman out of Kirkwall because he's pretty sure that Pentaghast is going to get herself shot or stabbed by antagonizing Hawke. In fact, he's rather hoping she does.

As soon as they're through the gates, a slender red-haired woman dressed in the ornate leather armor of a Chantry guard steps from the shadows of the city gates. She gives him a sweet smile that doesn't burn away the sorrow hovering in the back of her eyes and falls in step beside the damnable Dragon Lady. He stops and turns around to scowl at the two of them with his arms crossed over his magnificent chest hair.

"I told you, I'm only taking _you_ to see Hawke, Dragon Lady," he says, scowling at Pentaghast and then turning his fearsome glare toward the redhead. Something about her reminds him of Merrill, and he feels the scowl lessen a bit as he looks her over. "Don't I know you from somewhere?"

Her smile reappears. "Pleased to meet you, Ser Dwarf. I am Leliana," she says, extending a graceful hand. "We worked together once, a few years ago, in the Chantry. Before..." The sadness returns to her eyes full-force and her voice trails off as she looks past him into the distance. She clears her throat and shakes her head as if to ward away the chill mentioning the Kirkwall Chantry brings to the air. "I would be honored if you would allow me to accompany you."

"Fine, you can come," he grunts. Varric nods to hold in yet another sigh and turns around to walk down the switchback pass to the jagged half-trail that leads to the Wounded Coast. He hurries along the narrow path, sure-footed as a mountain goat from many years of practice. The two human women keep up without hesitation, much to his disappointment. It's already becoming one of the longest days of his life, and it's not even noon. If he's not careful, today will edge up to rank among The Big Ones: the day Anders blew up the Chantry, the day of the Qunari invasion, and the bloody nightless, dayless weeks in the Deep Roads after Bartrand's betrayal.

They're barely three miles out on the trail, deep in a scrappy, rocky forest, when he hears a familiar birdcall. Red hawk. A smirk crosses his lips and he hesitates, lifting a hand to still Pentaghast and Leliana behind him. He can feel Dragon Lady's glare against his back and waits, counting to ten in his head. Leaves rustle somewhere in the distance and he catches a whiff of leather and lyrium. That means the elf is close, probably rounding behind to flank them with his scary-ass sword.

"What's going on?" growls the Chantry Seeker, glaring around at the thick foliage. She draws her weapon and points the tip of the sword at him. "You've set us up to be ambushed!"

Leliana tilts her head to the side, calm blue eyes scanning the trees. A tiny smirk crosses her lips before she can hide it and he blinks. Her fingers remain at her side but they flex, rather like Hawke's often do just before she whips a weapon off her back. So maybe she's a little less Merrill and a little more her own person, Varric thinks to himself, raising his hands as the blade edges closer to his nose.

"Watch who you point that thing at, Seeker," snaps a new voice. A familiar voice that makes Varric grin in spite of the sword in his face. He glances over to see Hawke herself sauntering out of the bushes, daggers in hand. The ever-present pouches at her hips jingle with the poisons she carries and the famous red leather armor glints in the dappled light filtering through the trees. The fearsome smirk that crosses her face is the same one he saw her give an ogre once before she jumped on its chest and stabbed until she was up to her elbows in its throat- no shit. An entrance befitting the Champion of his tales.

"Good to see ya, Hawke," he says. He glances up at the branches over their heads as Dragon Lady lowers her weapon with trembling hands. "How many?" he asks.

She shrugs, eyes never leaving Pentaghast's face. "Only five," she answers with half her attention. She comes to a halt a few feet out of sword range and he notes that faint creak of her boots that indicates she's on the balls of her toes, ready to spring any moment. Ferocious eyes narrow on the Seeker and she points with one of her blades over the open space between them. Her smirk fades. "You have ten seconds to explain yourself. If I don't like what you have to say, you die."

"I am Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast," she announces in her haughty tone. "I come seeking your assistance, Champion, in preventing the outbreak of war." She doesn't even put her weapon away, though she lowers it. Of course there's no way old Dragon Lady has any idea that Hawke can clear the space between them in a single leap. Then again, few people have seen her do it and lived, not a one on the receiving end of such a leap. (Well maybe Broody has, but he won't tell Varric any good details.)

He makes the educated decision to start edging in gradual increments away from the two Chantry women and toward Hawke in case there's a fight.

It surprises him, then, when Leliana pulls the bow off her back and tosses it at Hawke's feet, lifting her hands over her head to indicate surrender. "We are not here to capture or kill you, Champion," she says in that soft Orlesian accent. She speaks like a courtier, even manages a graceful curtsey with her hands still aloft. "We come to ask your aid. And I would like to request that the handsome elf behind us does not decide to run us through with his... large sword." A knowing smirk crosses her lips.

Hawke glances at the redhead and one of her brows rises. "Sister Nightingale," she says with a touch of wry humor. "You've joined with the Seekers, then?"

Leliana gives her a short nod, but does not elaborate.

Hawke's gaze shifts beyond the small group in front of her and she purses her lips, lowering her knives without sheathing them. Varric scoots a bit more, grinning as he watches Fenris emerge behind the two women who followed him. The elf has messy hair and his greatsword drawn, spiky armor blending with the shadows cast by the trees. He has that death-sneer as well, the one that Varric still suspects brought him and Hawke together. Hey, if they won't give him details, he has to make shit up, right?

"Hi, Broody," he salutes the elf and grins, edging still further from the Seekers. He keeps talking to distract them, but Leliana's eyes flick over him and he has a feeling she knows his plan. Bloody perceptive women. "Sorry to interrupt you guys. How's the vacation been? I hear Antiva's pretty nice this time of year, if you're good at ducking stray blades. And aimed blades. Which you both are. Any good stories?"

Fenris snorts, sword lowering, and tosses white hair out of his eyes. Like Hawke and Pentaghast, he keeps his weapon out. "There are always good stories around Hawke," he answers, slouching the way he does before whipping into deadly motion. He gestures with his free hand, the muscles of the opposite forearm flexing against the weight of the blade. A wry smirk crosses his mouth as he comments, "I see you've made a few new lady friends."

"It's the chest hair," Varric replies without missing a beat, taking a step back into a pool of light. "See how it ripples and glints in the sunlight?"

"Seeker," says Leliana with a pleasant smile toward Pentaghast. Apparently she's correctly interpreted their banter, because she says in a calm voice, "I believe you ought to surrender your weapons before something... unpleasant occurs."

Dragon Lady looks from Varric, to Hawke, to Fenris with a puzzled expression. After a moment of what appears to be fierce internal struggle, she sets her sword on the ground and kicks it out of reach. "Very well. I prefer to speak about this in a civilized manner," she says, gaze drifting between them again and settling on the Champion. "And I am not so foolish as to believe myself capable of facing down the woman who killed the Arishok in single combat."

Hawke smirks that bloodthirsty smirk of hers and sheaths her weapons with a quick flourish. "Good choice," she says. "Start talking." She steps on the bow in such a way as to make it hop in the air and catches it, swinging it onto her back with ease. Fenris moves with a similar sweep to hook Pentaghast's sword into his free hand, now brandishing two full-sized weapons in a comedic large-scale version of Hawke's own dual-blade style.

Varric takes this as his cue to move to her side, pulling Bianca out and cradling her with his own fearsome grin. He doesn't need to look at Hawke's profile because he can imagine that smirk he just saw getting a bit more predatory, a bit toothy, a bit wider, while her eyes narrow and glitter.

Pentaghast blinks and her brows draw together. "As you well know, with the Divine on her deathbed, things have never been so tenuous in Thedas," she begins. "After what happened with the Kirkwall Circle and the ensuing mage revolts, the Divine's hold over the Faithful has slipped in the past two years. Now that the Templars have left the order to continue pursuing mages without Chantry approval, Tevinter has begun to aid escaped mages more and more openly. With every day there are more and more former Circle mages apprenticed to Magisters, learning the black art of blood magic."

Both Hawke and her elf draw a sharp breath at the mention of Tevinter, their eyes narrowing and darkening in unison as Varric looks between their faces. Understandable, considering Fenris' history with the Imperium.

"What do you need me to do?" Hawke asks sharply. A hardening of her jaw indicates some form of regret and for a moment her head inclines enough that her hair obscures her eyes. Varric watches, astounded. Could she actually _regret_ preventing the Rite of Annulment? He's never doubted for a moment that she regrets having a role in this mess, but to regret helping the mages means things have changed, indeed.

Taking a breath, Pentaghast continues, "We need your help. The Seekers have been searching for you now for two years, since you disappeared from the Gallows that day. We must hurry to Val Royeaux before the Divine dies and ensure that her successor is willing to work with the Seekers to repair the Chantry and unite Thedas against the Imperium. If we do not prevent this, we will all end up slaves to the Magisters." Her sharp amber eyes take on a pleading expression and she spreads her hands in a benign gesture of goodwill. "Please, Champion. You are the only one who can possibly set things right."

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><p>Cast of new (and old) characters in order of appearance:<p>

**Cassandra Pentaghast:** Yeah, there's hints she might have a major role in the next one and it makes sense to me, so I'm keeping her. According to Dragon Age wiki, she's descended from the Nevarran Royal dragon-hunters. Her backstory will come out more in upcoming chapters. Weapon and shield/tank warrior, human female.

**Aiden Surana:** One of the surviving apostates from the Kirkwall Circle, he's incredibly bitter not only at the Templars, but at his fellow blood-mages who justified the slaughter. Like Feynriel, he's originally from the Alienage and has never known anything but poverty and imprisonment. Healer/supporter mage, elven male.

**Brogan Vorsha:** A new dwarf! Because Varric won't be sticking it out for this whole thing (sorry). Brogan may or may not have pissed off the Carta. How he managed to piss off a whole guild of crazy dwarves and live remains a mystery, as well as how a rogue sucks at playing cards. Just wait for it. Dual-wielding/melee rogue, dwarf male.

**Gayle:** A former Magister who's fled Tevinter for reasons she prefers to keep vague. Young and hotheaded, her skill with deadly primal forces makes her a powerful ally, while her refusal to use blood magic makes her an enigma. Damager mage, human female.

**Maraas:** Also back from DA2, the Tal-Vashoth deserter who warned you of his fellows' ambush plans when you headed up the path in "Blackpowder Promise." Disillusioned with the Qun and disgusted with the Tal-Vashoth, Maraas has taken up the mantle of mercenary. And he's damn good at it. Two-handed/damager warrior, qunari male.

**Dualla* Estanus: **Her face plasters wanted posters for a series of petty crimes and the more serious crime of evading the city guard. With a severe Robin Hood complex, she spends her nights sneaking out of the crowded, dank Val Royeaux Alienage and stealing from merchants and nobles to provide for her people. Archer/ranged rogue, elf female.

*Yes, Battlestar RIS fans, her name is TOTALLY a reference.


	2. Road to the Divine

Thank you, reviewers! I was worried that it might be crazy to try to do this, but you have reassured me that it's worthwhile. :-)

While I have many things worked out in my head, in later chapters I am going to leave it up to readers to kind of nudge Hawke into various decisions throughout the story, rather like in-game. I should also mention that I chose a Hawke who sided with the mages, so she will be attacked by Templars on the regular. If I were writing this as an actual game, a Hawke who sided with the Templars would be attacked by mages on the regular.

**Warnings:** language, violence, new characters appearing

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><p>Hawke stares at this Cassandra Pentaghast, trying to decide what her game is as she pleads for help with the desperate situation. Of course a Nevarran would be worried about Tevinter; they only have the Silent Plains to separate them. Then again, if Nevarra falls, the Free Marches and Rivain would be separated from Orlais and Ferelden and the rest of Thedas would have no chance. Not without 'help' from the Qunari, at any rate.<p>

For two years she's enjoyed the relative freedom of being a fugitive, camping in mountains and forests with Fenris, pretending that they could one day settle down and have children, as if her name could be forgotten or his face not recognized. Now, staring at the Seeker and the Divine's Left Hand, she knows that she can no more escape her fate than her lover can remove the lyrium from his skin. She catches Fenris' eye; he still holds both swords in his hands and stares at her with a ferocity she hasn't seen in the past two years. He wants to do this as much as she does. Well, two years of relative peace is about the best she can hope for, being the Champion of Kirkwall.

With a resigned sigh, Hawke nods at the other woman. "I get it," she says, pushing her hand back through her hair. It's gotten longer in the last few years and she knows she'll have to cut it when they get back to camp. Her eyes flick over to Sister Nightingale, the Divine's Left Hand and she passes the redhead back her bow. "Leliana, you go ahead of us. You probably travel faster alone anyway. Tell the Divine we're coming and keep us informed when we get to the city."

Leliana nods, taking the bow, and jogs back down the path without a word. She disappears seconds later into the brush and Hawke purses her lips, glad for the bard's efficiency.

Her attention turns to the remaining intruder, the unfamiliar face among the others. Keeping her tone even, she commands, "Seeker, go back to your men and let them know. We'll meet at dawn on the Wounded Coast."

"Thank you, Champion," Pentaghast says, lowering her head. "I am deeply indebted to you, as are we all."

Hawke catches a familiar glimmer in her eyes, that combination of trust and admiration and _worthiness_ that set her companions in Kirkwall apart from the rest of the riffraff. She realizes with a start that the Seeker respects her and nods stiffly in return, still not sure what to make of the other woman just yet. At her nod, Fenris relinquishes the ornate longsword to its owner, sparing a brief sneer. Like Leliana, she leaves without another word, but at a more sedate pace. Still, Cassandra will be useful, and having Chantry protection for the journey is a practical matter if nothing else.

"Right," she says. Her eyes fall on Varric last of all, studying the swollen knuckle-marks on his jaw with a scowl. At this point he knows her well enough not to mistake the anger's direction, even to discern her joke. "You got quite a whallop, there. Are you getting soft on me?"

The dwarf chuckles and slings his crossbow across his back, spreading his hands a moment later. "You got me, Hawke. It only took two of them to take me down," he admits. His eyes meet hers for a moment and she detects that serious spark that means he's talking business or about to relay bad news. Since there's not a lot of profit in helping priests (at least on this side of the mortal coil), she has a feeling that it's the latter.

"You're not coming," she states, keeping the words dry and bereft of the confusing whirl of emotions she feels. It makes sense; Varric is almost ten years older than she is and after their adventures together, he's pushing forty. Not that old, but old enough to prefer comforts to combat and ale to adrenaline. Still, she can't help but to wish for the reassuring twang of Bianca behind her and the deep, smooth chuckle that follows his millions of jokes. And to think how much fodder Orlais would give him, with all the prissy nobles and political intrigue, makes her even more disappointed. How can she enjoy Val Royeaux without him there to lighten the stuffy, ornamental atmosphere?

Fenris gives the dwarf a long stare, pensive as he sheathes his massive blade in an easy, graceful motion. "You shall be missed, Dwarf," he rumbles, the first thing he's said since the Chantry women came to their attention. He nods once, green eyes softening with brotherly fondness, and Hawke's gut clenches. Are they really saying goodbye to _Varric_?

"I'm gonna miss you guys, too." Varric, to his credit, remains stoic for a very long moment. Then he starts bawling and so does she, and she punches his arm as she skids to her knees to hug him and sob all over his chest hair because he's sobbing all over her head-hair. She feels a strong hand grip her shoulder and opens her eyes to see Fenris pat the dwarf's back in a rather more brisk fashion before pulling away before it can become an actual group hug.*

"I'm never... _sniff_...telling anyone..._snrrk_... we both cried like babies," Varric promises, and she knows the story will be turned into a heroic glitter in her eye that she has to brush away as he waves to her from Kirkwall while she flies off into the sunset.

"Alright, let's head for the Coast and get drunk," she sniffles, pulling back and wiping her eyes. She stares at him and bursts out laughing. "I've gotten your chest-hair all soggy."

"I need a drink, as well," Fenris mutters, a few feet behind her to the left. Hawke looks up to see him leaning against a tree with a faint smirk, holding up Varric's flask. His eyes fix on the pair of them, still all teary and snotty, and she's really glad that he fell in love with her in between bouts of watching her family members dying and almost dying herself, so he's already seen her in much worse condition.

"Hey, how did you?" Varric yelps, patting his hips and scowling at the elf in mock anger. "You used your magical fisting to steal my flask in a moment of vulnerability!" He pauses and grins, just like his old self, that merchant glitter in his eye. "I'm proud of you."

"You have gone soft, indeed, Dwarf," Fenris chuckles, taking a swig before he tosses them the flask.

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><p>Hawke is surprised when Cassandra meets her without a large contingent of armed men, dressed in Seeker's armor with a pack almost identical to the ones she and Fenris wear, though in better condition. She raises an eyebrow, exchanges glances with Fenris, and approaches the woman with a confident toss of her aching head and unshorn hair.<p>

"You've come alone?" she asks, not bothering to lower the eyebrow.

"I expected you would want a guide in the journey," Pentaghast says, a faint frown forming between her eyes as she glances between Hawke and Fenris. "Why would you need an army to protect you? You're the mighty Champion; your strength is legendary." She shrugs as if this is obvious.

Withholding a sigh, Hawke struggles for an adequate reply when a shout rises from down the beach, drawing everyone's attention. She sees a young man running like hell, not that she can blame him, because he's being pursued by a band of lyrium-addled Templars. Their armor hangs askew and battered, their eyes fogged with power and rage that hangs over their warped bodies in a sickly yellow mist. Everything they've got has gone into the quest for lyrium and mages, it seems, because they are thin and corded as if they've eaten nothing but lyrium and blood in months.

The brunette man gets closer and she sees he's wrapped several belts with pouches around a jacket worn over a long tunic, but sure enough, he carries a staff on his back. Not just any staff, but Orsino's old staff. She'd recognize that thing anywhere, with the three tapering dragons curling up and together at the top. Merrill used it in their battle against Meredith, and her hexes were particularly effective.

Just as the man- elf, now that she can see him- turns and pulls the staff off his back to face the raving mass of Templars, Cassandra pulls out her sword and shield, stepping between the mage and the Templars. "Halt!" she shouts. "You have no authority under the laws of the Andrastean Chantry."

"Seeker," they murmur, their voices growing thicker with fury and excitement. They sound like rabid wolves or hyenas, clustering closer in a cackling swarm. Weapons and armor clatter as they approach, voices glittering with hate, resentment, insanity and evil. "Seeker, Seeker."

"I was wondering when the fun would begin," Fenris says, and she can hear that battle-ready grin in his voice as both of them draw their weapons in unison. At least she can work off her hangover the old-fashioned way.

As the elf mage backs up between her and Fenris, she notices the glitter of a small gold hoop near the top of his pointed ear and the crackling sensation of magic building around him. Sure enough, as she leaps on the nearest Templar, a wave of dispelling magic floods the cluster of men, tearing away their precious lyrium-altered sense and bringing them crashing down into a mad rage, but without that added strength.

Faces point toward the mage but Cassandra whistles sharply to catch their attention, her shield throwing a wide arc to fling them away as they cluster around her. Fenris moves his back to the Seeker's, guarding her flank with the long strikes of his greatsword as her shield moves between them to keep his open side protected. This leaves Hawke a fantastic array of nicks in armor and unprotected backs, striking with practiced precision as she dances from one man to the next. Men get rooted in their tracks by glyphs and bolts of spirit energy whiz past to help finish the men off.

When one of the largest men turns on her with a sword as big as Fenris' and kicks her in the chest, a much larger bolt sear over her head to burn through his armor. Her eyes dart to the mage, dancing away from the Templars and occasionally flinging them away with a psychic blast, and he catches her gaze with an ironic salute. She darts between the huge Templar's legs and stabs him in the back of the neck with a single thrust of her blades before taking a running leap onto the nameless mage's pursuers.

The battle ends soon after, the last of the Templars gasping against her blades and sliding off with a final clatter. All eyes turn to the elven mage, who puts his staff on his back with a sigh. He has a furrowed brow that makes him look older than the rest of his face suggests, with mournful gray eyes that command her attention. He looks harrowed, the way dark hair falls around his eyes and ears in disarray in spite of the braid behind his head, the way his belts hold the jacket together just a bit off-center and how his boots look worn.

"You're the Champion of Kirkwall," says the unknown mage, staring at her with a curious frown.

"My friends call me Hawke," she replies, an automatic correction. That Champion title has begun to wear on her, the novelty having disappeared about a month after every noble in Hightown began addressing her as Champion instead of Serah Hawke. She _likes_ her name; she's proud of it, and moreover, she is tired of all the weighty implications of might and inspiration and responsibility that her title carries.

The elf mage blinks and collects himself. "I'm sorry. My name is Aiden," he says, bowing his shoulders forward in what is more of a slump than an formal greeting. He has a Fereldan accent, soft and pleasant and a reminder of home. "I am- I _was_-" he gestures bitterly at himself "-a Circle Mage. But now there is no Circle to go to, so I guess I'm just a mage."

"So have you turned to blood magic to escape the Templars yet?" Fenris asks through tight teeth. He would bring this up.

Aiden's eyes narrow on the other elf's face. "Not every mage is an unholy murderer. Some of us actually _liked_ studying magic safely with books and practice rooms and libraries."

Hawke raises her eyebrows. "Were you from the Circle in Kirkwall, then?" she asks him.

"Ostwick," he answers, not giving any further details.

"Have you traveled this far on your own?" she asks.

Aiden shrugs and she's reminded of Fenris, the first time she met him. Stubborn and not very talkative about certain things. Not that she'd ever compare this frazzled-looking mage scholar to her brooding, handsome warrior. "More or less," he answers. His eyes meet hers for a second and slide away. "Sometimes you can catch a caravan for a bit before you're noticed." He sighs.

Hawke inclines her head slightly, daring a glance at Fenris. His mouth is pressed together in an irritable line and she's sure she'll here more about this mage later, but for now she means to focus on this newest problem, er, person.

"You mentioned earlier that you liked being in the Circle?" she asks him, one hand on her hip. It confuses her to imagine anyone enjoying the Circle after her time in Kirkwall and listening to Anders' myriad of rants against the Circle. Hell, she'd been glad to hand her little sister to the Grey Wardens, knowing that in doing so Bethany would be protected from the Templars.

The brunette mage glowers at her. "Not every mage was thrilled by the uprising you started, Champion," he sneers. He sighs and seems to control himself a bit more. "Not that we weren't grateful you stood up for us against Meredith. That was... a hell of a lot more than most people would have done."

"Meredith was a madwoman," Cassandra speaks up, breaking her silence. "She is an example of the corruption that the Seekers fear in the Templars, what we seek to prevent in the name of Andraste and the Divine."

Fenris snorts. "Orsino was no better, in the end."

Aiden scowls at Pentaghast. "The Seekers didn't do a very good job in Kirkwall, did they?" he asks, that bitter, biting tone returning to his voice.

Hawke fights down a sigh as Aiden's eyes meet hers again, flickering with a bit of an apology. "Well, we're going to Val Royeaux to speak to the Divine," she announces, saying the words more grandly than she means to. "Not that we're sure she won't have me executed on sight," she mutters as an afterthought.

The mage chuckles and sobers in an instant, as if remembering he's supposed to act gloomy. "I'm trying to get there, too. I don't want to flee to Tevinter and become a Magister, but I don't want to get murdered by Templars, either," he says. His eyes meet hers and she already knows what's coming, but in case she didn't get the hint, he adds, "If you don't mind having a mage along, I'll travel with you to Val Royeaux."

For a moment Hawke ponders her options. Mages are targets, Templar-magnets these days, but then again, she'll need help from a skilled mage and this one performed well when the time came to step away from the books. In fact, their little group worked very well together, coordinating the battle with little effort and so effective that not one had any injuries. It almost felt like the old days in Kirkwall, the way she and her companions worked together to finish off enemies.

"Very well, Aiden. You're welcome to travel with us," she says.

He gives her another of those slumping bows, then lifts his head to meet her eye. "Thank you, Champ- I mean, Hawke."

"Well, let's get moving," she says, glancing around her new band of misfits. She tries not to think of what Varric would say about all of this, but she could swear she hears an echo of his laughter, can imagine him saying 'Well, Hawke, you sure know how to gather crazy people for your adventures.'

The others gather their things, and after the group finishes looting the bodies (which have a disgusting number of lyrium potions on them) they set off down the Coast to make their way toward Orlais. The morning sun rises into noon and the day passes without further incident until they make camp for the night.

Hawke crouches by the stream near camp, washing her face, when she hears a rustle in the bushes and turns, drawing a dagger. Fenris emerges with an easy gait, pushing some leaves out of his hair. "I never understood why the Dalish enjoyed this traipsing around in the dirt," he mutters. He used to say that often when they left Kirkwall to do something outside the city, but she hasn't heard it in the two years they've spent camping and running around.

She gives him a half smile as he sits down next to her, flipping her blade onto her back and settling back on her heels. "How are the others doing?" she asks him, nodding back in the direction of camp.

"They are fine," he answers, waving them off with a hand. Green eyes focus on her face. "I came here to speak with you."

"About the mage," she sighs. He nods and she continues. "You know we're going to need all the help we can get, Fenris. He's Circle-trained and more than that, he _supports_ the Circle. He isn't off summoning demons or cutting his wrists to dance naked in the moonlight. And I'm not worried that he's going to blow up the Chantry, either."

Fenris sets his mouth in a grim line. "I still do not trust him," he comments. "Especially not the way he kept _looking_ at you."

"Are you jealous?" Hawke asks with a surprised bark of laughter. She smirks and shifts to lean forward so her hands land on either side of his hips, bracing her weight against the ground. Their noses are close, almost touching and he stares in her eyes as one hand lifts to brush along her cheek. That old red scrap of cloth he wears around his wrist flashes under the moonlight. Her voice lowers to something more seductive and purring as she says, "Do I have to prove that you have no reason to be jealous?"

His eyes flash and a grin forms around his lips. "I am jealous if it involves you proving yourself," he answers. He lunges forward to seize her by the waist, dragging her into his lap and kissing her.

Beside them, the moonlit creek babbles on without a care for the lovers tangling on its shore.

* * *

><p>Two days later, they enter the Planasene Forest. Like almost every forest in Thedas, this one seems rife with hostile wildlife, from wolves to giant spiders to bandits. They get only a half-mile into the woods when they spot a cluster of well-equipped bandits attacking a dwarf with a messy black beard and wild brown eyes. She watches as the dwarf pulls two daggers off his back and sets to dodging the bandits with a skill that almost rivals her own. Almost.<p>

Before anyone can say anything, Fenris yanks the sword off his back and sprints at the bandits, giving no one any choice in the matter. She has her weapons out a second later, joining the fray as well, certain she knows why he leapt to the strange dwarf rogue's defense. Something about him reminds both of them of Varric, though she'll be damned if she can put her finger on it. Certainly not his looks, because the dwarf has much crazier, angrier eyes than Varric and nowhere near the style, wearing a battered leather chest piece and fingerless gloves that expose his tattooed forearms. Maybe it's just because he's a crazy dwarf, and she has an empty space in her heart in the shape of a crazy dwarf that needs filling.

The bandits yelp as a greatsword cleaves through them, and another one drops, singed by a bolt of Aiden's spirit magic. Hawke flips into their midst, ducking and weaving with the help of the new dwarf to backstab the bandits, her knives finding purchase in the gaps of the enemies' armor. She hears Cassandra's sharp whistle and backflips away as men cluster around the Seeker. A man flies back, battered by Pentaghast's lethal shield, his jaw broken, and Hawke finishes him off. For a few seconds the sound of clanging weapons and dying shouts and sizzling magic fills the air, and as Hawke rushes the last man, he drops to the ground and she sees the dwarf standing behind him with a smirk and bloody daggers.

"Thanks," says the dwarf in a gravelly voice. His brown eyes twinkle as he wipes the blood off on his pants and sheathes his weapons. He sticks out a blocky hand toward her. "Name's Brogan. These sons of bitches-" he prods the nearest corpse with the toe of his boot "-thought they'd get the bounty on my head. Guess they thought wrong," he laughs.

"Hawke," she answers, shaking the dwarf's hand. She glances at the group of bandits, there must be eighteen in all. "Why were these men after you?" she asks, puzzled. This dwarf doesn't have the wealthy glitter to his clothing that she's come to associate with the Merchant's Guild, which she understands from Varric is the primary reason for bounties on surface dwarves.

Brogan smirks. "I may have stepped on some toes in Kirkwall," he answers with a blithe shrug.

"Are they Coterie?" she asks, the first name that pops into her head. That damn thieves' guild has given her more trouble over the years than she'd care to admit. Almost as an afterthought she adds, "I'm always happy to thin their ranks."

The dwarf throws his head back and laughs. She hears her other companions shift around behind her, feels their eyes on her back. "Wish it was just the Coterie," he answers. Her interest in this dwarf piques, and she raises both eyebrows in response to his suggestion. How many guilds of thieves can one dwarf piss off, after all? Of course, with their involvement in the lyrium smuggling trade, she imagines that it's possible for someone to incur the wrath of Carta, Coterie, and Templars with one botched shipment.

"Are you a lyrium smuggler?" Cassandra asks in her lofty tone. Hawke bites back a sigh. Like her companions in Kirkwall, this new group seems hellbent on voicing their opinions at every opportunity.

"Does a bear shit in the woods?" Brogan snorts. Hawke decides in that instant that criminal or no, she likes this dwarf.

"Speaking of the wood, why are you on your own out here?" she asks him. "I thought dwarves hated the forest."

Brogan shrugs again. "Those sheltered Orzammar dwarves, maybe," he answers. "I've been hiding out here for a few months now. The forest makes for good cover and those bumbling city-slicker sods stumble into every trap I lay out." He grins then. "Or maybe I'm just that good."

"If you are that good," Hawke comments, "Maybe you should come with us to Val Royeaux. I could always use more armed lunatics at my back."

He gives her a toothy grin and she notices that one of his incisors is gold. "If it's armed lunatics you're looking for, Hawke, then I'm your man," Brogan announces, pointing to his chest with a thumb. "I should warn you, though, those fancy Orlesians probably won't like me much."

Hawke smirks at him and says, "I'm counting on it."

* * *

><p>*This is why I chose Fenris as the love interest. I can picture all three of the others getting a little gushy and group-hug-y and I wanted to avoid that.<p> 


	3. Welcome to the City

**_Special thanks_** to **Alaskantiger** and **Layagg**for your fabulous reviews. I'm hoping I've captured the voices well, and that the new characters have unique but memorable voices as well. Thanks for your encouragement and support. :-)

**Warnings:** violence, language, companion drama, more new characters

* * *

><p>After three more days of arguments about the Seekers' role in Kirkwall and the solution to the current crisis (which range in suggestions from reinstating the Circle to a bitter comment from Fenris that they should just surrender to Tevinter now and get it over with), Hawke is ready to throttle everyone.<p>

Hawke notices that the Planasene Forest weaves and winds in such a way that without Brogan's guidance (and superior trap evasion skills), her little band would be lost many times over. They find themselves ambushed by stalking animals or bandits hiding in the trees, and to make matters worse, Fenris and Aiden have come to an uneasy 'enemy of my enemy' sort of truce and spend most of the long walking hours between skirmishes ganging up on Cassandra, blaming the Seekers for what happened in Kirkwall. Hawke doesn't interfere at first, content to listen to the arguments, in part because she wants to hear Pentaghast's explanations and in part because she just doesn't like those close-minded mage-hunting Chantry folks.

"If the Seekers suspected such corruption in Kirkwall, why did they not interfere?" Fenris demands. He has the same harsh tone to his voice that he used to have while addressing Anders or Merrill regarding their various forms of questionable magic.

Cassandra makes a noise that falls somewhere between a huff and a growl, indignant and helpless. "Do not presume that you are privy to the business of our order," she answers after an awkward second.

"How evasive," Aiden quips. "No wonder the Chantry's in ruins." Fenris grunts his agreement and Hawke, walking ahead, wonders if the elves have bonded over their mutual broodiness and irritable natures, or if it's just a temporary alliance in the name of defeating a greater enemy. In either case, their strange camaraderie sets her at ease, because it's quite the improvement over Fenris' previous interactions with mages.

"As I said-" Pentaghast begins.

Both men interrupt her in unison. "You said nothing," they chime in their different voices, creating an odd harmony between the low Tevinter growl and the clear Fereldan chime. Though she agrees with them, Hawke finds herself wishing Brogan were here to talk to, instead of darting ahead to scout for traps and enemies.

"The Seekers may not take such a major action unless ordered by the Divine," Cassandra snaps at last. The words sound drawn through gritted teeth against every instinct she possesses, as if she's been tortured to reveal such information. "Sister Nightingale returned to Kirkwall too late."

Silence descends for a moment, and then Aiden comments, "You would think that with a disaster like that looming ahead, she'd understand a little premature action."

Hawke pinches the bridge of her nose and slows a step so that she ends up in the midst of their little trio of argument. "It is what it is," she announces, silencing all three of them. Before anyone can muster a counterargument, she hears the familiar hiss of a nearby spider and springs to action. She never thought she'd be thanking the Maker for the giant arachnids, but this time she can overcome her usual disgust in favor of relief that the battle forestalls any further sniping from her companions.

Brogan meets them an hour later by a stream as he cleans gore from the complicated dragon tattoos on his forearms. His unruly beard opens to reveal his crooked teeth in a broad grin and Hawke muses on how such an ugly face can be such a delight to see as she approaches him at a jog.

"There's a good high spot on one of the trees over that rise," the dwarf says, wiping his hands on his pants before he points. "You can see the way clear to Cumberland from up there. I'd reckon we're about three days off." His eyes move to the grumpy-looking group following Hawke and he raises bushy brows. "So tell me, Hawke, how do you manage to keep them all from tearing each other apart?"

She shrugs and spares a grim smile for him as the others move to refill their waterskins and wash up in relative quiet. "I guess I'm just that good," she answers. She tilts her head back and checks the position of the sun in the sky; it's crept several hours past noon and she can hear the first hum of crickets anticipating the impending fall of night. "Did you find any good camp ground?" she asks the dwarf.

Brogan wrinkles his nose. "There's a cave a few miles up the ridge if you don't mind clearing out some wildlife," he says. "Probably rife with treasure and lyrium."

His tone startles her. Hawke's never heard a dwarf sound so sour about treasure and lyrium. It's unfathomable to the point that she feels almost dizzy, incapable of comprehending it. A dwarf who disdains treasure. Her brain whirls and her brows rise, and all she manages is, "You're not interested in treasure?"

He scowls at the ground for a moment before answering. "I'm not the most normal dwarf, in case you hadn't noticed." Brogan lifts his arms toward her to show off his tattoos, but his eyes refuse to meet hers, the scowl stubborn on his face. Great, she thinks, another broody companion. But then a sparkle returns to his eyes and he grins that broken grin again, laughing, "But I do drink like a dwarf!"

Grinning, Hawke crouches to refill her own waterskin and take a drink before asking. "So where did you come from?" she asks.

"All over, sort of. Grew up on the border of Rivain and Antiva, sort of city to city. Went off to the Free Marches for a while, but I got out before the whole Qunari fiasco," he says. His ugly grin broadens. "Good job offing the Arishok, by the way. Heard about it all the way in Orzammar."

"You were in Orzammar?" she asks, brows rising again.

She glances over to see that Cassandra and Aiden have settled on the grass listening to them, while Fenris stands a few feet away with his arms folded, watching from a tactical angle in case of an attack.

Brogan glances around as well and nods, his grin disappearing. "I don't recommend going there, the food's awful," he mutters, making a poor attempt at the laughing demeanor he had earlier. After a moment of uncomfortable silence he gives up and says, "Anyway. Should we camp here, or head to the cave?"

Hawke pauses and assesses the others for a moment. It hasn't been such a tough day; they can make it over a few more miles and chop through a few more spiders. Fenris catches her eye and rolls his head on his shoulders, popping a few vertebrae in his neck. She grins at him and he smirks back before her eyes turn to the rest of the group, eyeing Aiden, Cassandra, and Brogan. "All right, people," she announces, "Let's go kill some more spiders."

Of course an hour later, covered head to toe in webbing and spider goo with her left arm tingling from Aiden's healing spell, Hawke wonders why she didn't stay at the stream. The cave is dark and smells dusty, the ceiling covered in iridescent mushrooms that would be lovely and resemble stars if they didn't bear a strong odor of rotting fruit. Her stomach turns as she looks at her companions and sighs. Aiden has a long green splotch across his right side, from ear to knee, and an ironic expression of acceptance in his eyes and his faint shrug. Brogan has a few bruises and is covered in gore after rolling under a spider and gutting it- he rolled away fast enough not to be crushed, but not fast enough to avoid getting covered in the spider's innards. Cassandra's dark hair is a mess and she looks miserable, her shield's heraldry obscured with webbing and green gunk and blood, just as her own armor and the blade of her sword and most of her face. She looks dizzy with all of the healing she's received and her armor has several new dents, the result of drawing the attention of all the spiders without the help of a greatsword-weilding elf at her back. Said elf waits outside of the cave to keep watch, probably scowling enough to scare any passerby or potential ambush away.

"What a fantastic place to camp, Brogan," she remarks in a dry voice, eyeing the dwarf. "Between the smell of the mushrooms and the spider-slime, this beats anything we're going to find in Orlais."

"Yeah, thanks," grumbles Aiden, setting down the heavy pack of lyrium and various clanking pieces of armor that Hawke had yet to go through. She decides that the mage is pissed because, aside from always being pissed, he has to carry all of the lyrium and he's not used to such heavy loads.

"Let's start getting rid of the bodies before the smell gets worse," Hawke says, sheathing her weapons. "I'm going to check on Fenris." She jogs to the front of the cave before anyone can object, winding back through the passages and caverns they found before until she reaches the entrance. It will be nice to get a moment alone so they can discuss the defenses of the cave, among other things.

When she gets there, however, Hawke's disappointed to find that he's standing with a feral snarl at the front of the cave, staring at a young woman with tangled dirty-blonde hair and exotic-looking robes that leave one arm and shoulder bare while her skirt hangs open along one leg to reveal a boot with a series of complex laces. She has a sneer to match his and when Hawke approaches, the woman mutters something in Arcanum that makes Fenris growl and reach for his sword. The woman tosses her head and her hair blows out of her face with a sudden gust of wind, revealing a carved staff with a wicked scythe blade at the end.

"Hey," says Hawke, hurrying to step between a fight that she doesn't want to happen, "What's going on here?" Her eyes narrow at the woman and the unnatural wind and she resists the urge to put a hand on Fenris' arm. "Who are you?" she asks the blonde, preparing to draw a dagger.

The other woman lifts her spine in an imitation of royal posture that comes across as defiant instead, and it occurs to Hawke that she can't be more than twenty, as young as she herself was upon meeting Varric. (Maker, she misses him.) Steely pale blue eyes peer through thick lashes and full lips compress over a delicate chin. "I am Gyl-," she pauses, eyes darting briefly from Hawke to Fenris. "I am Gayle," she finishes in a quieter voice, almost meek, and the wind halts.

Fenris snarls in Gayle's face, his nostrils flaring, and for a second Hawke feels a stab of jealousy at how close rage brings him to the other, younger woman. "A Magister," he grits out.

Hawke's brows rise. "You're a Magister?" she asks, though it wasn't too hard to figure out, seeing as how the mage spoke in Arcanum. She sweeps her eyes over the girl's bare arms in search of the telltale network of scars that mark a blood mage, but sees nothing aside from the high quality of her clothing and the jeweled gold sparkle of bracelets and armbands.

Gayle's lips mash together in a pout and she scowls. "Not here, I'm not," she grumbles, gesturing at the cave. She runs her hand through her hair, revealing a series of gold hoops and beads threaded through each ear. "Here, it turns out that I'm just another mage to be hunted by mad Templars and feared or hated by everyone else."

"With good reason," Fenris growls, not taking his eyes off the mage.

"What are you doing in the middle of the forest?" Hawke asks, raising her eyebrows. This girl seems too young to be as evil as Fenris claims all Magisters must be, though after all she's seen in the past years, she's not about to let her guard down. After all, at twenty she had a few hundred kills under her belt between Ostagar, Lothering, and the Red Iron.

"Well, I left, obviously," the young woman says, meeting her eyes for a moment before she sets to picking at an invisible piece of lint on her clothes. It reminds Hawke again how young Gayle seems. "There are too many new apprentices competing for places of power among the Magisters. It got... crowded."

Fenris sneers. "_Vasta fas_," he growls, turning to Hawke. "She lies. We should kill her."

Gayle's eyes flash at him and thunder rumbles overhead. "It comes as no surprise that a slave should be so uninformed about the current political situation," she sneers, placing a particular twist on the word 'slave.' It makes Hawke wonder if the other woman knows Danarius, if she has met Fenris in his previous life.

"He's not a slave," Hawke snaps, an automatic response, just as his tattoos flare with light. She glares at Gayle. "Don't ever forget that."

The Magister presses her lips together as her fists clench at her sides and crackle with lightning. A powerful, destructive mage if ever Hawke saw one, and not an enemy she's eager to face, out of practice as she's gotten in the past two years. But the lightning doesn't shoot at her, just snapping at the girl's sides as if to display the emotions she seems to be trying to control. Gayle continues, not acknowledging Fenris or any comments about him, "Mages arrive like refugees from the Blight, more and more each day, but they are desperate for power and wealth, for the 'freedoms' they were denied in the Circle. They waste our resources and oust more worthy candidates from their positions."

Hawke interrupts any reply Fenris can make by asking, "Are you saying you fled Tevinter because of all the new mages?" It makes no sense. This goes against everything he has told her about Magisters.

"I... left to see what all the fuss was about," Gayle replies, smoothing her hands along the front of her draping robe as if to arrange the folds. The lightning fizzles out, much to Hawke's relief, and she indulges the girl's obvious show of calm disinterest.

"You seem young to be a Magister already," Hawke comments, crossing her arms. She maintains a casual tone though her eyes narrow as she watches Gayle's guilty start. "You must be very powerful."

The mage stares at a point over Hawke's shoulder. "I am," she says, her voice growing bitter. "And so is my father." Fenris snorts at that comment and Hawke's eyes dart to him for a moment, but he says nothing and so she continues with her line of questioning.

"Do you use blood magic?" Hawke asks the question that she's been trying, indirectly, to get to. It's the most important thing to know, and she stares at the mage with serious eyes, watching the other woman blink and frown, her lip curling in disgust. Other questions about slavery and such can come down the line, and, knowing Fenris, they will. But this has been at the forefront of her mind and it needs to be known now.

Gayle gets that Fenris-like sneer that makes Hawke wonder if sneering is a Tevinter trait or a vital part of Imperial culture. "No, I do not use blood magic," she snaps, and the wind picks up. She tosses her head, drawing herself up into a haughty posture. "I am a Magister of the Imperium, not some unworthy _slave_."

Hawke knows that she's not going to kill this mage- not yet, anyway- but she feels a strange urge to when she sees the glitter of begrudging admiration in her lover's eyes. She resists putting a hand over her stomach to quell the twisting of her guts and asks instead, "Where are you trying to go, anyway?"

The mage shrugs. "I have yet to decide." Her gaze shifts away and Hawke suppresses a sigh. What's with all of these secrets her new companions seem determined to keep?

"How are you at dealing with spider carcasses?" she asks instead.

* * *

><p>It takes a few weeks to get from Cumberland to Orlais, after haggling for a boat and the proper protection from crazed Templars and bounty hunters out for her blood. There seems no end to people who want to kill her. Once they actually get on the boat, however, the skies are unaccountably clear and they make excellent time across the Waking Sea with a brisk wind that fills the sails without growing rough. By the time the arrive in Orlais, Hawke is not sure whether she hates or loves her new companions. They are as crazy and irritating and entertaining and skilled as her friends in Kirkwall, but it has the effect of making her miss those old companions. Their relationships are just as complex, to the point where she finds herself as surrounded by debate as she was in the Free Marches, if not more so. Times may change, but somehow her life keeps on a similar course.<p>

As they approach Val Royeaux, the entire group stops and stares at the city. At the center stands the royal palace, its rooftop swooping in graceful curves, gold statues and trim on every arched window to line the stained glass, covering every door and topping every tower and spire. Royal gardens stretch in a lush green swath around the palace, cutting a line of green that's peppered with flowering trees, carved stone benches and a myriad of fanciful, expensive flowers through the city. The high spires of the Cathedral rise above the rest of the city, the pale carvings glittering in the morning sun. She can see the nearby University of Orlais stretching with elegant carved arches and delicate buttresses that formed birds and leaves. The houses, too, though they crowd together at the edges of the city, are all ornate and delicately made, the windows fluttering with silks and lace, the gardens full of jewel-bright flowers, the trimmings of every window and rooftop and gable and door like lacy frosting that curls and twists. From afar, the city is the most beautiful thing Hawke's ever seen. She feels Fenris' shoulder press against hers as they stare at it and she turns her head to look at his profile for a moment as he tucks a piece of her hair over her ear, his fingers trailing over her face.

"It is a breathtaking sight," he murmurs, turning to look over the city again.

She nods, still dazed at the spread that combines elegance and lavish over-indulgence, the wild twists and turns of the streets and the curling patters of lacework that drape around the flowers. "It is beautiful," she sighs, feeling a bit wistful. How can she wander around a place like this without the proper attire and so forth? Don't they have a number of ridiculous customs?

Cassandra clears her throat. "We must hurry to the Cathedral and speak with the Divine while there is still time," she announces, starting toward the highway that leads into the city.

"How are we expected to receive an audience with the Barbarian Divine," Gayle asks, gesturing at the males with a graceful hand, "With _them _following behind us? Are we to say they are our servants or guards?"

Brogan chuckles, but both elves give the Magister looks of loathing. Fenris takes a step closer but Aiden, rather than start another argument, turns on his heel and follows Cassandra down the road and out of earshot. Hawke runs a hand through her hair and holds in a sigh. Since she joined their group, Gayle has managed to piss off everyone but the dwarf with offhand comments about how the rest of Thedas is barbaric by Imperial standards, how the mages here are so weak she can't believe they managed a rebellion, and how the Chantry must be even weaker to allow such a rebellion to occur. Even Aiden, who initially threw her shy but adoring looks, has grown short-tempered with the other mage.

"Look, Gayle," she snaps, "I don't look a whole lot better. And it doesn't matter. We have a mission here, and it's a lot more important than determining the latest in Orlesian fashion."

The blonde woman sniffs, but doesn't make any further comments, to Hawke's relief. The group walks toward the Highway, but as they approach, a group of thug steps up to block the path, smirking and dirty.

"Have you paid the toll?" asks the frontmost thug, grinning to reveal blackened teeth. He has a thick accent that reminds her of Darktown and even from ten feet away, Hawke can smell the reek of cheap whiskey and body odor that clings to him. She spares a glance for Fenris, relieved to see that Brogan has already disappeared. A brief snatch of his tattoos flash behind the thugs and she knows he's ready for the impending fight.

"The Imperial Highway is not a toll road," Gayle sneers, her Tevinter accent thickening in response to the thugs' sorry threat. "And _you_ are not an employee of the Empress, not smelling like that."

Hawke stifles a burst of laughter and sees Fenris smirk out of the corner of her eye. If even he can stand her for a moment, maybe Gayle isn't so bad, after all.

The thug's face flushes a ruddy color under all the grime covering his face. He draws a pair of knives from his back. "You'll pay for that, bitch," he snarls. His men follow suit, the whole lot of them drawing a motley assortment of sharp weapons from their ragged clothing and armor.

For the first time since she's met the younger woman, Hawke sees Gayle smile. It's not a pretty smile but a predatory grin, more a baring of teeth than anything. As Hawke leaps for the leader a bolt of lightning slams into him and the shock roots him to the spot, shaking as arcs of electricity burn along his daggers and jump across the metal on his clothing. She twists mid-leap to land beside him and jams her knife sideways into his neck. Fenris' sword whips a silver blur beside her and she sees a man choke and fall with Brogan darting off from behind him. The thugs, however, have friends, and it seems as if every grubby sellsword or thief comes rushing to their aid.

As Hawke starts to worry they may be overwhelmed, a scream fills the air, an unnatural sound of wind moving so fast that it literally howls overhead. She backs away, staring up as a funnel-shaped cloud touches down in the center of the fight, whipping thugs up in circles and slamming them to the ground, stunned and broken-boned. After that, it's easy to finish off the highwaymen.

Everyone stares at Gayle when the last body drops, eyes wide as she puts her staff on her back and smooths her windblown hair away from her face with both hands. She gives them an innocent look, as if such a level of destruction is commonplace.

"I have never seen a spell such as that," Fenris growls, wary eyes on her.

The Magister smirks. "Of course you haven't," she answers in a smug tone, marching forward to the Highway. "I made it up."

Hawke frowns. "Is that why the boat made such good time across the Waking Sea?" she asks, recalling the way the captain crowed at what marvelous luck having the Champion of Kirkwall brought to his vessel. Gayle smirks in response.

No one else speaks as they make their way into the city, not even Brogan. Cassandra waits for them at the gates, tapping her foot in a show of impatience. Aiden slouches beside her, leaning his weight on Orsino's old staff. Hawke eyes it as she always does, but the elf mage refuses to speak about where he got the staff or why he persists in carrying it. She can only hope that in time, he'll trust her enough to explain his motivations. But he sees her looking and shoves it on his back in a swift motion, averting his gaze and falling in step behind her and Cassandra as they move into Val Royeaux.

Once inside, Hawke has to revise her opinion of the city. The streets are a confusing jumble, filled with gaudily-dressed people wearing masks of varying complexity, even the merchants. Only the poorest people don't wear masks, their faces cast downward at the ground, and the Chevaliers, whose helms cover most of their faces anyway. At the edges of the walls, the poor live in shoddy slums that seem about to collapse at the slightest breeze. When she notes the wind picking up she gives Gayle a sharp look and the mage startles, looking at the ground with a guilty-child's expression and muttering something about 'just testing.' Brogan chuckles again and starts talking to the blonde girl. Hawke sees Fenris and Aiden drop back to mutter amongst themselves, whether about Gayle or Cassandra she no longer cares.

The Seeker falls in step beside her. "Sister Nightingale has agreed to meet us outside the Cathedral," Cassandra announces in her clipped Nevarran accent. Amber eyes study Hawke's profile. After a moment, her voice softening, she says, "This is only my second time in Val Royeaux, you know."

"Really?" Hawke asks, brows rising. "Do you know your way around?" she asks, half nervous and half curious.

Pentaghast nods. "The first time I was training to be a Seeker and lived here for some time. But I have not returned in the time since, having been sent to Starkhaven and then to Kirkwall as soon as I completed my training," she answers. A faint smile curves one side of her mouth, an oddly soft expression considering her hard-edged dragon-hunting demeanor. "It is good to be back, even under these circumstances."

"How long were you in training for?" Hawke asks.

Cassandra tenses for a moment and stares at her as if trying to determine the nature of the question. "Three years, but most recruits train for longer. I was an exception because I was raised to hunt dragons," she replies, gesturing at the fancy sword and shield on her back with a thumb. Hawke's fought enough Templars to recognize that those high-quality weapons aren't Chantry-issue.

"So you _are_ one of those Pentaghasts," Hawke says, grinning at the woman. "Have you ever fought a dragon?"

The Seeker sighs. "Yes, I am," she mutters. "But the dragons have fled Nevarra for the mountains. My father and uncle disappeared into the Anderfels when I was thirteen in search of the beasts. If not for the kindness of the Grand Cleric, I might have found myself a cutpurse or mercenary." Her words are the correct sounds of gratitude, but her tone has a sort of resignation to it that sounds more like she's repeating some dogma that she's been told over and over again.

Hawke frowns. "What about your mother?" she asks.

"She died giving birth to me," Cassandra answers with a shrug. It explains so much about the woman's cool demeanor, even her short hairstyle. Without a mother's warmth, she was raised by warrior men who expected her to be comfortable with putting her life at risk before the great beasts in pursuit of glory. Hawke feels a new respect for the Seeker, but before she can say anything, a hooded figure approaches from an alleyway and stands in front of them.

Blue eyes peer out from under the hood and Hawke sees a flash of red hair. "Be at peace, Champion," the soft voice of Leliana murmurs from within. A gloved hand lifts in a brief gesture of greeting. "I have come to lead you to accommodations near the Cathedral, so that you might remain close. The Divine is not well, and cannot receive visitors today, even ones so important as you. I have arranged for you to meet with her at first light tomorrow." She does not wait to see if they are listening or following her, turning down the winding streets and leading them with ease through the crowds. Hawke cranes her neck back to check that Fenris and the others are following, and sees that, sure enough, the others have fallen silent as they listen to the Orlesian woman's soft voice.

Hawke is relieved when they arrive at the Inn. Gayle sneers at the dirty floor and the small room she's offered before she disappears within, slamming the door and locking it. She avoids the others for the remainder of the night. Hawke isn't sure what to do about the newest member of her group. On the one hand, the girl is a Magister of the Tevinter Imperium and clearly dangerous. But she hasn't threatened any of them, not even Fenris, and she's made it obvious she recognizes for a slave. The implications are staggering to Hawke, who settles in her own room in order to sort her thoughts.

She's managed to obtain a Chantry Seeker, a brooding ex-Circle mage, a forest-dwelling dwarf who hates treasure and a former Magister refugee of Tevinter. Varric would cry he'd be laughing so hard. She tries to imagine what he'd say and can almost hear his voice in her head chuckling, 'Things are never dull with you around, Hawke.' Her eyes burn at the track her thoughts have taken and she clenches them shut, scrubbing the moisture away with the heels of her hands.

"I miss him, too," a familiar voice rumbles. She looks up to see Fenris entering their room, lowering his pack to the floor.

She manages a weak smile as he sits beside her on the bed. "I just never actually thought he'd be gone, you know," she murmurs, staring at the cityscape outside of her small window. "I thought he'd come with us for sure, just to write the story if nothing else. And now I keep thinking, what would Varric say to all of this? What would he think of all these crazy people following me again? He's already missed out on so much."

Fenris grunts and she hears him shift to face her. After a moment, the intensity of his stare against the side of her face forces her to look into serious green eyes. "We should not bring the Magister along," he says in a quiet voice.

Hawke sighs. "Fenris, I'm trying to decide this. She hasn't done anything to hurt us, and if she fled Tevinter, how can she betray us?"

"I have told you before, Hawke, that those Magisters who refuse to use blood magic do not survive long," he answers, his voice steady. She can see his fingers clench into fists at his sides and watches him cautiously, trying to discern what he means by the comment.

"Are you saying she lied about the blood magic, then?"

He shakes his head and white hair falls around his face to conceal his darkening expression. "No," he grumbles. "She is no blood mage. That she yet lives is only because of the power her father commands." His voice sounds bitter, furious, and she can feel hatred rolling off him in waves

A surge of annoyance creeps into her tone. "Do you know her, Fenris, or know her father?" she asks. It bothers her that he hasn't thought to mention more about the Imperium, especially in light of their current mission, but it also bothers her that she didn't think to ask. Since that tumultuous three-year period when they were apart, she's been careful not to ask too much about his past in the Imperium, but now that information might prove vital. After a moment's pause she queries, "Why have you both mentioned her father?"

His mouth draws into a grim line and his brows compress his eyes. "You do not know who you have meddled with. She does not need blood magic to be dangerous, nor does she need any motive or opportunity to betray us. Her mere presence shall betray us sooner or later," he growls. His stare sharpens on her. "Are you truly so unaware of her identity?"

"What are you talking about?" she asks, a bit too loud. Even Fenris has started speaking in riddles and it irritates her. She thought they were long past this point, but it seems her lover has still more secrets to keep from her.

"That is Gyldenmae," he answers. At her blank look, he clarifies, "The Archon's daughter."

* * *

><p>AN: _One idea I wanted to bring into this chapter is that while a person's love interest (LI) is their first companion (like the siblings in DA2), they also have interesting information about the new companions that those companions won't share until later in-game. Each love interest corresponds to a different new character. Merrill knows Dualla, Isabela knows Brogan, Anders knows Aiden, and Fenris knows Gayle. And YES, the other love interests will show up with their insider information later in the story._


	4. Thieves in the Night

Thanks for the reviews! I love them. :-D

A/N: I felt like Aiden was underdeveloped, especially for being the second recruit, so I brought him in more in this chapter. Inspiration for Maraas comes from the song "A Shot to the Stars" by Whitley. Go listen. Cause he was hard to start writing, but got fun real fast.

There's a cookie for anyone who comes up with a good name for the Orlesian version of the Hanged Man, which is the inn the party is staying at for most of the first act.

**Warnings:** language, death (sorta), the looming shadow of politics, the infamous Val Royeaux Alienage, and mild sensuality.

* * *

><p>Hawke stalks from the room she and Fenris share, angling toward Gayle's room with cold fury filling her veins. Not just a Magister, but the daughter of the Archon himself, a Tevinter mage princess. There is no possible justification for keeping such knowledge hidden. She's so wrapped up in her own irritation that she walks into a large, solid mass of flesh as it exits another room.<p>

"Well met, Hawke," rumbles a deep voice, with the familiar Qunari accent. She lifts her head, startled to see the stern features and sharp horns of one such warrior and confused about where she's met him before. His broad shoulders and muscled chest are bare, unconcealed by the open leather vest he wears. It's the vest that stands out to her as strange, the fact that most Qunari she's seen wear nothing on their upper bodies, save for some warpaint. In fact, though he wears the gold bands around his biceps that most Qunari do, his clothing marks him as different. And that's where she knows him from, she realizes- it's Maraas, the former Tal-Vashoth turned mercenary.

"Maraas," she says, startled. "What are you doing in Orlais?"

He shrugs with a flex of bronzed skin over heavy sinew. "I have been hired to seek out a thief in this city," he answers. He pauses, tilting his head to one side. It is an odd combination of human and Qunari mannerisms and she blinks but refrains from comment. "I am having difficulties, though. This thief is... clever."

She nods, more to buy herself a moment to phrase the next question. "What do you know about this thief?" she asks, leaving out the obvious offer of help. He might have rejected the Qun and even the outcast role of Tal-Vashoth, but it may still offend him to have someone offer assistance. Much as Fenris has taught her about the Qunari, she does not know just what to make of this strange exile, how to gauge just what he might construe as her insulting his competency. Hawke, having seen him fight the Tal-Vashoth leader, knows just how competent he is with that greatsword of his and doesn't want to be on the wrong end of a demonstration if he takes a friendly overture the wrong way.

"I know little, aside from the fact that it operates out of the Alienage here," he replies in that deep voice. His brows draw together over his eyes, which she notices are a dark purple color that seems strangely out-of-place against the pale hair, bronze skin, and dark horns. Fierce as his gaze is, the color of his eyes seems at odds with the rest of him, a physical manifestation of gentleness and humanity she's never bothered to look for in a Qunari. Or kossith ex-Qunari. Whatever he is. He's still referring to this thief of his as an 'it,' after all.

Hawke purses her lips. "If you will accompany me on a brief mission, I will see what I am able to learn of this thief and share any information I receive with you," she suggests. Maker, it's a pain trying to figure out this creature's temperament, but with all the crazies she's collecting, he's the first one she really wants to recruit. Of course, anyone who saw Maraas whip that sword over his head and through a Tal-Vashoth would want to have him guarding their ass rather than hunting it. Her eyes meet his and she keeps her hands at her sides as she asks, "Is this fair, or do you desire payment?"

Maraas gives her an appraising stare. He's seen her fight as well and has heard the many stories of her conquests, she knows. "You have a rare sense of honor, for a human," he answers after a long moment of assessment. His chin lowers. "I would need the nature of your mission, first."

"Sit there and look pissed while I yell at someone in that room there," she points to Gayle's door and then pauses, tapping her lower lip with her index finger. On a more serious note, she adds, "Don't let me kill her, unless she attacks me first. Don't even let me throttle her a bit, because I think that would set her off. And if she _does_ attack, help me kill her fast."

"What is this woman, that you feel the need my blade at your side to talk to her?" he asks with a suspicious frown.

She raises her eyebrows at him and folds her arms. "I think you can figure it out," she responds, motioning with her chin for him to follow her as she moves to the closed door and lifts a hand to knock. Before she does, she hesitates and glances at him. "I need you to keep everything you hear to yourself. Got it?"

Those eerie, purple eyes narrow at her. He's Maker-damned smart to be so perceptive, she thinks when his clawed hand settles in a careful curve around her wrist. It startles her to feel such gentleness from such a large, fierce creature and she feels her eyes widen as she stares at him before she can resume a normal expression. He removes his hand immediately. "This saar- this _mage_," he corrects himself with such force that she winces. Maraas is not a stealthy man and it doesn't surprise her to find he's having trouble locating a thief in the Alienage. "Is it a companion of great importance? The one who destroyed the balance of these lands, perhaps?" The glitter in his eyes makes her uneasy.

"It's not him," she answers, glaring at him and lowering her hand, still at the door and not knocking. "Why would you want to see Anders?"

He smirks at her, one corner of his mouth stretching up in a feral half-smile with that gleaming amethyst stare. "He has left the lands of Thedas rife for takeover," he responds. "While those in Kirkwall curse him, those in Tevinter and Par Vollen thank him for his foolishness."

"You didn't really answer my question," she tries not to sound exasperated. "And Anders is gone. I don't even know where he is at this point. When the Templars disintegrated, Cullen couldn't hold him anymore."

The sight of the Chantry exploding replays in her mind: that needless loss of life that she knew all along coiled within her friend in the form of a warped Fade spirit, but persisted in hoping the man himself could win out. In the end, she still feels there's something she could have done. Perhaps that's why, after Orsino betrayed his own people and Meredith had been slain, she handed the mage over to Cullen and Thrask and said that he was never to be made Tranquil, because that would be a mercy. His punishment is to live with the guilt of what he did, what he blackmailed her into helping him with (and even got her to root around among piss and shit under Darktown), to live as he ought to have lived: under close surveillance with absolute vigilance on the part of his watchers, capable of comprehending what he's done and why he must suffer as he does. It's the worst punishment she can devise, because she knows he wants to die and knows that Justice wants it, too: vengeance.

It must flicker in her eyes, because Maraas says, "Yet you still care for this mage. Why?"

She snorts and shakes her head. "Because I was supposed to be his best friend, and I wasn't there to stop him from doing what he did," she hisses, turning to face him. "I was too wrapped up in my own life to see how far he was sinking and I _could have done something._" Hawke halts, gritting her teeth together and wishing she hadn't said all of this to him. She turns back to the door and the moment she raps it opens.

"Hawke. Hello. Um, come in," Gayle stands in the doorway, her blonde hair messy and her pale eyes darting from Hawke to Maraas. She has a guilty expression like a child, from the pursed lips and darting eyes to the faint flush that creeps over her cheeks, making it obvious she's been eavesdropping through the door. Hawke wonders how many other people heard her exchange with the warrior.

"This is Maraas," she says, gesturing toward the the behemoth behind her.

Maraas ducks through the door and moves to a position on the edge of the room where he can see both exits (door and window) and reach the mage with a single large step. Both he and Hawke watch as Gayle takes her time shutting the door before she walks across the room to sit on the edge of the bed. Her shoulders slump a bit.

"Gyldenmae, is it?" Hawke asks, remembering her previous fury at the Magister's lie of omission.

Silence fills the room. Maraas has an expression as though he's choking and Gayle grips the edge of her bed until her knuckles turn white and smoke rises from beneath her hands. Hawke watches with her arms crossed, eyes steady except for a single glance toward the Qunari to ensure he isn't ready to snatch her on the spot and return to the Qun with her as a prize. But he makes no move toward her, so he either doesn't know the name, or doesn't care, or is obeying her orders.

At last, Gayle lifts her gaze and her palms, crushing small balls of lightning in her fists. Hawke notes that the frame of the bed is also scorched with electricity damage. "So what now?" she asks, lifting her chin in defiance. Her eyes flash and Hawke could swear that sparks dance in her hair, weaving through the blonde. "Are you going to ransom me to my father or kill me?"

Hawke crosses her arms and glares at the blonde girl with her lightning-hair-and-hands. The bed will cost extra. "I might just throttle you a bit," she answers, her voice tight. "Why would you keep that from me for this long?"

The Magister laughs a bitter little laugh and shakes her head until blonde hair falls to hide her face. "Would you announce such a thing, in my place?" she asks, pushing her hair away from her face and staring up at Hawke with a look that is half defiance, half desperation. "If you happened to be the least favorite child of a ruler, the little black sheep of the family, would you go about decreeing your title to fighters from a hostile nation?"

"You've had plenty of time to tell me," Hawke snaps. She doesn't mean for her tone to be so sharp, but dammit, how could she know this girl for almost a month of hiking through woods and several weeks in the boat and not know something that important? Maybe part of it is the fear of having another Anders all over again, but she has to push the point home. Still, she attempts to gentle her tone as she continues, "And that's the sort of information I need to know if I'm traveling with you. What if an enemy or a spy recognized who you are? We'd be in deep shit." Maraas, thankfully, doesn't move throughout the entire exchange, nor does he offer any opinions.

Gayle pouts and glances away. She looks as if she's struggling for words, and Hawke narrows her eyes as she watches. "My father won't pay the ransom, you know," she says in a quiet voice. "If I were to be kidnapped, he would not lift a finger to see me rescued and returned home."

"I'm not kidnapping you," Hawke sighs. "Maker, Gayle, don't you have _any_ sense? Kidnapping you would only give your father an excuse to wage open war. Killing you would accomplish nothing. You're useful in a fight and you haven't done anything to harm any of us." Her eyes sharpen and her voice grows serious as she continues. "But remember that if you ever do turn on any of us, I'll kill you without hesitation, no matter who you are." She sighs and tosses hair from her eyes, shifting her hands to her sides. "There are people around who _would_ try to ransom you, though. And that would start a war we aren't ready for. So you should have told me, because I didn't know I had to look out for that kind of thing."

The mage hangs her head at Hawke's speech, though her lips twist a bit at the end. "I have no issue killing those who try to kidnap me," she smirks. "And I have been successful so far."

One of her hands settles on her hip and Hawke tightens her jaw. "It only takes one failure," she answers. "One moment of hesitation." She remembers how she missed those white flowers because she was hungover, still bitter about Fenris leaving. She thinks of that Darkspawn blade that nicked her sister's hand, the tiny cut she overlooked that went on to steal her sister's destiny away. And she thinks about the split second when she stepped back from the ogre, that split second in which Carver lunged straight into the monster's grip.

"I- yes," Gayle hesitates, not meeting her eyes, fumbling for the right words. "I, um, I apologize for keeping my true identity from you, Hawke." She says 'apologize' as if it's a foreign word, something distasteful that she wants to be rid of. "I hope you can forgive my transgression."

Hawke sighs. This girl might be more difficult to deal with than Fenris was, in the beginning. Bloody Tevinters. "Just don't keep things of that magnitude from me in the future," she says. After a moment, to be on the safe side, she adds, "Apology accepted." Gayle attempts a smile that looks more like a grimace and Hawke snorts at the almost pained expression it ultimately causes. "Don't hurt yourself."

Maraas follows her out of the room and pauses in front of her door, silent up to this point. "You entrust me with much, Hawke," he says in a serious tone. Purple eyes settle on her and she can almost feel the entire weight of his huge form in that stare. "I hope that I will prove worthy."

A quick, wry grin twists her lips. "If you want to meet me tomorrow, I'll be happy to uphold my end of the bargain. The Alienage will be a nice break from the madness." He looks confused and she shakes her head. "I'll see you tomorrow around noon, in front of the inn." She slips through the door and sighs.

Fenris looks up at her entrance from where sits on the edge of the bed shirtless, sharpening his sword. "It took you long enough," he comments. He sets the whetstone aside and sheathes the blade before standing up and moving across the room to her. He starts unbuckling the straps of her armor and removing it piece by piece, his deft fingers moving quickly in a show of impatience for his nightly ritual of affection, one that's become more important since the additional company and lack of privacy.

"I ran into an old friend," she answers. When his hands still in question, she chuckles and continues, "You remember Maraas, don't you? The Tal-Vashoth deserter who warned us about their ambush." She pauses as he pulls the chest piece over her head, lifting her arms obediently. "He's looking for a thief in the Alienage. I told him I'd help him out. Is there any chance you'd want to come along for that?" she asks, knowing already what his answer will be. Fenris hates the Alienages and refuses to set foot anywhere near such a place if he can avoid it, and Val Royeaux is alleged to have the worst of the lot.

As expected, he answers her with a contemptuous snort. "Take the Qunari. I shall remain here and listen for rumors with the dwarf," he says. A chuckle resounds through his chest and she feels it against her back as he steps up and wraps his arms around her armor-free form from behind. "Did you know, Brogan may be the worst Wicked Grace player I've ever encountered?"

* * *

><p>Hawke and Fenris wake an hour before dawn to rinse their faces and bodies with freezing water from the inn's washroom before going downstairs to meet Cassandra and Aiden in the silent common room. They wait with cups of hot coffee and cooling bowls of porridge for Leliana to appear for another hour as patrons start to filter in from the rooms above. After a while some of their companions join them, too. First Maraas comes and sits with their group after a hesitant glance at Hawke, accepting his coffee and porridge and consuming both in silence, ignoring the others' curious stares. Twenty minutes later, Gayle comes down and gulps her coffee as if she can't feel the heat of it draining down her throat. Then Brogan comes down with sleep-mussed hair and a large yawn and starts talking to Fenris about whetstone materials, a conversation that Maraas joins with a deep rumble that makes everyone startle and glance at him before the elf and dwarf return to the conversation, now including the Qunari giant.<p>

Cassandra stands, agitated, and goes outside to check if Leliana is waiting in front of the inn.

Aiden remains silent on Hawke's left side, staring into his coffee cup and holding onto his staff, his thumb absently stroking against the smooth dark wood. She watches the elven mage for a moment before she speaks up. "So, Aiden," she begins, searching through her mind for something to say. "How long were you at the Circle, before...?"

He blinks and looks at her as if he's forgotten where he is. "I was taken when I was ten. I still remember my mother and my little sister," he answers. His face looks a bit sadder than usual as his eyes move back to the coffee mug. "I'm luckier than other mages who were taken when they were younger," he continues, sounding rather bitter, as if he doesn't feel lucky. "Most of them don't remember their families at all."

"Why were you taken so late?" she asks him. She remembers her sister's first manifestation of power, the fireball that singed Carter's eyebrows off when the twins were seven. It was, according to their father, the normal age for magic to manifest.

Aiden shrugs his slumping shoulders and keeps his eyes on the coffee mug, but his hand tightens around the staff. "My magic is more subtle than most. It manifested when I tripped in my mother's house and would have fallen into the fire but for an invisible barrier that I created without realizing it. I never had any talent for controlling elements, though I tried to light candles and such without ever succeeding," he gives a small, tense smile at the memory. "But I learned the healing arts with great ease."

"How did the Templars catch you?" she questions, intrigued. She takes a sip of her coffee and keeps her eyes on him.

He purses his lips and scowls at his cup until she thinks it might break under the force of his gaze. "My sister was playing with her friends and fell off the Alienage wall. One of her ribs was broken and it pierced her lung. She was going to die, and I healed her. I healed her in the middle of the marketplace." He snorts and this time sounds well and truly bitter as he adds, "The Templars told me they were very impressed at my skill and bravery, but they were still taking me to the Circle."

"You've a Fereldan accent, but you say you're from Ostwick. Where were you from, before they took you?" she asks him.

"Denerim," he answers. "But I have not been there since I was taken almost twenty years ago. I was in the Ferelden Circle for the first seven years and then they transferred me to Ostwick."

Hawke's brows rise. "My family lived in Lothering for a while, before the Blight," she says. "Why were you transferred to Ostwick?"

Aiden's dark brows contract as he looks at her, head making a sharp swivel so his gray eyes meet hers, emotions swirling like clouds in their depths. "A close friend dabbled in blood magic and was caught by the Templars," he answers shortly. "She was made Tranquil and I was sent to Ostwick so that I would not be tempted to continue her research."

"Research?" Hawke scoffs. She knows from her friend Merrill that most blood mages get their power from demons and doubts there is much research involved in that.

He sighs. "Blood magic isn't as black-and-white as the Chantry would have you believe," he answers. Hawke notices that at his comment every person at the table falls silent and stares at him. He scowls around the group. "It _is_ possible to use it without invoking demons or becoming an abomination," he insists, eyes flashing like a storm. "With the proper wards, a mage can even use blood magic to defeat a demon instead of becoming enslaved to it."

Fenris and Gayle both say "_Venhedis_, you fool," at the same time and in the same snarling tone, high voice and low mixing together. Hawke would laugh if it weren't such a serious matter. Now she remembers how Aiden answered Fenris' question about blood magic by saying that not all mages were murderers without actually saying whether or not he _used_ blood magic. She looks at the two Tevinters, both standing up with a hand on the table and eyes narrowed at the elven mage in identical poses. The claws of Fenris' gauntlet dig into the tables's scarred surface and tiny bolts of electricity run down Gayle's fingers to leave burns on the wood and a part of her wants to join in with their violent reaction, in large part because she accepted his evasive answer as a firm pledge that he was an innocent mage scholar and not a blood mage.

"Blood itself is not inherently evil," Aiden argues at a level volume, though Hawke can see his tapered jaw clenching and hear the grinding of his teeth. "If it is willingly given, I see no reason why it should not be used." His eyes narrow at Gayle. "Surely _you_ can understand this. Not every Magister uses demons to work blood magic, I'm sure."

The Tevinter woman sneers at her fellow mage. "Blood magic blinds men to those insidious demons," she answers. "I have seen it time and again, men and women who insist that they are safe from demonic influences boasting of their power." Gayle leans across the table toward him until her nose touches his, hissing, "And all the while, if one but looks hard enough, one can see the laughing face of a pride demon at their side." Her eyes narrow at him, the blue flashing almost yellow under the greasy tavern lights, and she jabs a finger into his chest that Aiden lowers his face to stare at, looking almost confused when he tips his head back to stare at her again. "Never forget that I know how to look."

Aiden stands up, hand tightening around his staff, almost head-butting Gayle with the speed of his movement. Hawke would be impressed at how swift he is, if it weren't for the fact that two mages are about to duke it out in the middle of a tavern in a foreign nation full of spies. Heads are already turning as they glare at each other and the air crackles. The door bangs open in a gust of wind, but fortunately Cassandra stands there with ruffled hair, a hand outstretched as if she was reaching for the handle when the door blew open ahead of her.

"Gyldenmae," Hawke says, the volume of her whisper low but the name itself is a clear threat. Gayle's eyes snap to her face and her lips press into a thin line, but she resumes her seat, crossing her arms over her chest with a huff.

Cassandra walks forward, her feet half-stumbling and sits in her vacant chair with a rough clatter of armor. "We are too late," she whispers, her voice holding an odd, rough note that Hawke can only presume is grief. She sits forward to stare at the Seeker, awaiting the next words, as do the others. Even Aiden sits, fixing gray eyes on Cassandra with arched brows. "The Divine passed late in the night. Sister Nightingale cannot meet us because she is now meeting with the others to determine a successor. We are too late." A quiet gasp flits around the table. No one moves for a long moment and they all stare at the Seeker, trembling with the weight of her announcement.

"Without the Divine to keep the last of the Chantry in line..." Hawke murmurs, afraid to finish the thought. She fights back a wince.

The Seeker nods without lifting her head, expression miserable. "She did not name a successor," she whispers, wrapping her palms around her coffee mug and shivering so hard her armor clatters. A chill rushes through Hawke to see Cassandra's usual stoicism so shaken as she continues, "And now two have laid claim to the position. The faithful are divided and the duty may well fall to the Seekers to determine who shall succeed the Divine."

Silence falls around the table for a long moment, everyone staring into their cups or at the surface of the table without words. Even Hawke finds herself at a loss for words.

"Then it does no longer our duty," says Maraas, breaking the spell of shock. Everyone glances at him and Hawke sees that his intense gaze has fixed on her. She remembers her promise to him and tries to collect her scattered thoughts. The Qunari's purple eyes remain steady and she finds herself staring into them, taking a measure of relief from his certainty and solidity.

"We'll go to the Alienage, then," Hawke announces. She glances around the group. "Maraas, Aiden, and Gayle, you're with me." She pauses, her eyes meeting with the steady green of Fenris' gaze. "Please help Cassandra however you can," she murmurs, knowing he will hear her plea.

His hand snatches hers before she can leave, the cool metal of his gauntlet encircling her ungloved palm. Hawke turns to see him still staring at her and he brushes his mouth against her knuckles before letting her slip from his grasp and navigate with the others to the Val Royeaux Alienage. She feels herself smirking at the tingle that remains from where his lips touched her hand; Fenris has never been much for openly displaying is affection. He's screamed at her when she came close to dying, but aside from that intensive kiss in the Gallows before the Templars broke through the gates, the most he loving he gets in front of others is a lingering touch or the pressure of his shoulder against hers.

Maraas watches her from the corner of his eye, falling in step beside her as the mages trail behind them. "Why do you smile, Champion?" he asks her, confusion softening his intimidating features.

Hawke glances up at him and fights down a grin. "Fenris doesn't usually do that sort of thing in front of people," she answers, trying to sound nonchalant, even shrugging her shoulders. Heat rises to her cheeks; like her lover, she prefers privacy to public displays of affection. In an effort to conceal her wave of giddy embarrassment she pulls her gloves on, spending too long on the buckles.

"The elf is your... partner?" he asks, watching her struggle with furrowed brows.

"That's one way to put it," she answers, jerking her head up to look at him as they weave through the crowds of the streets and into the poorest slums. "We're together. But we don't have any children," she adds, frowning. Andraste's ass, it's hard to figure him out.

His brows lower and his lips purse. He makes a gesture with one clawed hand and Hawke tenses under her armor, preparing for an attack. "I do not understand," Maraas says, his voice almost petulant. She realizes that he's frustrated with a concept and calms, letting her breath ease through her lungs in gentle waves. "Why do you engage in such acts if you do not intend to produce children? What purpose does it serve? I am familiar with the human concept of mating for the sake of enjoyment, I do not understand its purpose."

She hesitates to answer as the high wall looms before them. She hears Aiden draw a sharp breath and Gayle mutters something that sounds dark and uncannily like Fenris as they approach the gate. Maraas trudges on, unaffected by the sight of the high wall and the throb of thousands of voices within.

"It isn't just enjoyment," she answers when she realizes that they are still several blocks away. It's a huge wall, so large it stands almost level with the walls around the city. "It's also about, you know, um, caring about another person?" She feels awkward. Discussing relationships isn't her strong suit, as her choice in lovers would indicate. Discussing her relationship with another person, even in conceptual terms, is uncomfortable to the point that she feels itchy.

Maraas stares at her a moment longer. "Strange," he says, but he doesn't ask any further questions and Hawke doesn't try to come up with any further answers.

The reach the Alienage in silence and she mutters something to the guards there, who glance at her with faint sneers on their faces and ignore her group as they enter. As they step inside she's struck by the stench, the smell of thousands of bodies being crushed into such a small space, the scent of illness and refuse and decay thick over the reek of sour sweat and perpetual grime. Hunched figures sit or lie against the buildings, a series of mismatched rickety structures that looks as though they have been added to, built taller at various points with different materials. The clamor of voices fills this wasteland, elves weeping and lamenting and shouting, groaning with disease and death or murmuring in their daily business. Hawke has spent weeks in the Deep Roads battling Darkspawn and this Alienage might well be the most horrible place she's ever set foot.

"This place is _horrible_," Gayle murmurs, stepping up beside Hawke and hovering close to her shoulder. "Why must we come here?"

Aiden hisses something under his breath that sounds like 'blighted Tevinter bitch' and grabs the Magister's bare elbow, wheeling her around. "This is what _you_ have done, Magister," he sneers in her face. "This is what Tevinter brought to Thedas." True though his words may be, Hawke whirls to face the pair and tenses, remembering their argument in the tavern and glancing at Maraas to see if he plans to involve himself or if he will help her to separate and subdue the mages if it comes to a more physical confrontation.

Maraas gives her a faint nod and though his arms remain at his sides, she sees him flex his fingers open and then draw those clawed hands into fists. He seems not to care that Gayle is a Tevinter Magister and a born enemy of the Qunari and Hawke wonders if it is because he has left the Qun so completely that he does not care, or because he sees her as unworthy of killing at this point in time.

The blonde girl glares at Aiden and tries to struggle out of his grip without success. "We brought civilization to the barbarian tribes," she snaps, but her eyes dart away from his face to circle around the Alienage and an expression of doubt crosses her face.

Hawke tries to intervene without touching either of them, seeing as how her ears pop when she takes a step closer. "The rest of Thedas regards the Imperium as an evil place ruled by blood mages and run on slavery," she says, biting back on adding 'and I'm no exception.'

Gayle hesitates, opening her mouth and then shutting it. After all, the woman claims that at least the blood magic is why she fled.

The elven mage only grips her harder, if the paleness of her tanned skin under his hand is any indication, and pulls her closer until they stand chest to chest. "You brought slavery and poverty and death," Aiden hisses, his forehead almost touching Gayle's as he looks down at her. Strands of his dark hair brush over her temples as he leans forward and mix with her tousled blonde curls. Hawke would be reminded of herself and Fenris when they first met and argued about mages (specifically Anders), except for the fact that the wind picks up and both sets of eyes spark with unnatural power; his flash with the purple-black mist of spirit energy while hers flash with the purple-white crackle of electricity. Maker, this is getting bad fast.

"It's true," Hawke says, meeting the younger woman's eyes. "The Alienages are what remain of the Imperium's enslavement of the elves. And these elves still have better lives than the elves in Tevinter, who are enslaved and beaten and raped and sacrificed for blood rituals."

"No," Gayle's eyes dart from Hawke's to Aiden's and she shakes her head so desperately that pieces of her hair whip against his cheeks. "No, we brought technology and civilization," she answers, but even as she speaks she doesn't sound as if she's convinced of what she's saying. Perhaps bringing her to this Alienage will teach her something and adjust a few of her attitudes about slavery and the Imperium.

Aiden utters a harsh, bitter laugh in her face and Hawke looks away, afraid he's actually going to kiss the blonde woman in the middle of this fetid swamp of abused elves. Now she knows how Varric and Aveline felt during her early years in Kirkwall, when she and Fenris would argue and even get into brief physical confrontations in the street. At least she and her lover didn't literally _spark_. "Your people built our prisons," he answers, prompting Hawke to think of the Gallows. "All Tevinter has given the rest of the world is fear and hatred for mages and a series of prisons to stick us in."

Gayle stares at him with an expression that falls somewhere between confusion and, to Hawke's horror, tearful doubt. For a moment it seems there might be hope for the Magister, but as she watches, the girl's eyes and mouth tighten into a furious mask and her palm cracks across the other mage's face, making his head snap to the side. "Don't talk to me like that, _elf_," she snarls. Her arm jerks free of his hand and Hawke sees angry red scores from Aiden's bitten nails marking her skin. Gayle moves to Maraas' other side, placing Hawke and the Qunari between herself and Aiden. For the remainder of their time in the Alienage, the blonde Magister refuses to speak to anyone but Hawke, giving even her clipped answers as she rubs the bruises on her arm.

With a sigh, Hawke turns to look around and determine a good direction to walk. A hooded figure sitting against a building that sat behind them for the duration of the argument darts off through an alleyway and that odd sixth sense she has tingles. She jerks her head in the direction of the figure's retreating back. "There," she says to Maraas. "Let's go."

He grunts in approval and the group jogs into the alleyway after the cloaked figure.

* * *

><p>The Alienage Scene is kind of like the first Gallows conversation you have with Fenris. Like bringing Merrill, Anders, or Bethany along, bringing any of the elves (Fenris, Aiden or Dualla if you've recruited her) will result in additional hostile dialogue.<p> 


	5. Nightingale's Sorrows

Sorry for the length of time between updates. Finals suck, and now I am done with them and able to write again for pleasure instead of pain.

After next chapter I'll be done dragging in new characters and the plot will be able to really start. Enjoy, or don't enjoy- tell me either way. -)

**Warnings:** violence, mild swearing, new party conversation attempts

* * *

><p>The alleyway, as it were, stretches between rows of shoddy apartments, too narrow for even a cart to fit through but apparently some sort of street for these Alienage elves. Hawke and her friends have to dodge around milling elves and sitting elves as the cloaked thief retreats. The figure whips around a corner suddenly, trying to lose them perhaps, and the cloak snaps back from the shoulders enough for Hawke to see it's a woman running. While her face remains hidden, Hawke notes her leather armor has intricate embroidery-too fine to be affordable for any of the Alienage's populace-and that the skirt consists of of a series of individual leaves strung in such a way as to slide around her leggings without interfering with any movement.<p>

Varric would laugh and comment that even the thieves in Orlais were fashionable, Hawke thinks with a wry grin. She vaults over a pile of crates at the corner. Leaps to the opposite wall. Runs two steps on the wall. That momentum springs her into an aerial cartwheel that lands her running point with Maraas close on her heels. Damn if he isn't fast, she muses, not sparing a glance because she can hear the steady nostril-huffs of his breath behind her. Even Aiden and Gayle keep up, cursing just behind the Qunari as the thief comes to a halt in front of the Alienage wall, whipping around to face them.

"Come on, already," Hawke calls, halting a few feet away from the woman, who now hunches in the cloak to hide any trace of gender or age. "We don't want to hurt you if we don't have to." She rocks onto the balls of her feet and flexes her hands. Beside her, Maraas does the same, easing to the other side of the alleyway to block the exit more effectively.

A laugh erupts from the thief's hood, as sultry as Isabela's but as delicate as Merrill's. The laughter echoes through the alleyway for just a few seconds too long. Hawke feels the hairs at the back of her neck prick and Maraas growls low in his throat after a moment.

"_Vasta fas_," snarls Gayle behind her. Hawke turns her head just enough to see silent elves moving into position behind the mages with daggers drawn and archers slinking to a safe firing distance at the mouth of the alleyway. "Can we kill them?" the Magister asks, her tone carrying a note of bloodthirsty hope that reminds Hawke of herself in her younger years.

"Just knock them out," Hawke answers, though she has to admit the idea of killing them appeals, in part because she should have seen the ambush coming. "You never want to piss of a guild of thieves until you've done your research."

"And after the research?" Aiden calls as he and Gayle draw back-to-back in the midst of the circling knife men. He holds his dragon staff flush against his forearm, rolling his neck until it pops, and she whips hers into a deft spin between her fingers, the scythe blade at the end glinting bright silver under the morning sun.

Hawke just gives the two of them a grim smile.

Maraas lunges at the thief with a roar, drawing his broadsword. Hawke whirls to help the mages. Both Aiden and Gayle swat their nearest attackers away with their staves, demonstrating the sort of proficiency in staff-fighting that Bethany has been honing with the Grey Wardens. She dives and rolls, drawing her daggers and jamming the hilts against the downed men's temples, knocking them unconscious. Lightning flashes over her head and bolts of spirit energy whizz past as she leaps onto the next elf, reversing her grip to crack both daggers down across his nose. He staggers back, his face a mess of blood and snot and tears, dropping his weapons to protect from another such blow. It takes a few seconds to take them out; the thief has a band of five knife-weilders and those four archers that Gayle and Aiden fried.

She whirls as Maraas brings the hilt of his sword down on the thief's head, knocking her into a heap of cloak and leaf-armor. He holds his final blow despite the arrow protruding from his shoulder, instead jerking his good arm in an outward arc that brings the flat of his blade against the final two attackers' foreheads. They, too, fall unconscious. Damn, her new armed lunatics are good.

"These were not worthy of dying at our hands," Maraas rumbles. He glances at the thief and then at the arrow in his shoulder. "Except, perhaps, for that one."

Aiden rolls his eyes. "Aren't you Tal-Vashoth?" he asks.

"No," snaps Maraas. Hawke tenses when the giant Qunari looks at her. She licks her lips, not sure why she's so nervous of him. After all, she's killed more than her fair share of Qunari, and she knows that if it came down to it, she could take Maraas as easily as any of his fellows. But something about him, whether it's the way he flexes his claws and the motion ripples through every small muscle of his arms or the way his strange amethyst eyes are so compelling and full of questions and wisdom at the same time, makes her hesitate at every turn.

Hawke resists a strong urge to kick the elf mage. "Put up a barrier around the thief so she can't run again," she orders him. Her eyes flick back to Maraas, who still watches her with that troubled, troubling stare and the arrow in his shoulder. "What he means is, doesn't that get in the way of being a mercenary? Determining which opponents to kill based on their worthiness?"

He purses his lips, apparently unaware of the arrow. "I have traveled far to find a place where I might have enough work available to choose from. But you are right, _basra_, it does make things... difficult," he says. "This thief is worthy, though, if her reputation is true."

"What, exactly, is her reputation?" Hawke asks, narrowing her eyes on the warrior.

Maraas gestures toward the thief with his uninjured hand. "She is very clever. Her methods are stealthy, and her targets are rich," he explains. "She steals from nobles and they are discontented."

She and Aiden both chuckle and Maraas and Gayle give them bemused stares. "It's just," Hawke snorts once more to get it out of her system. "It's funny when wealthy people get upset. Most of them are useless. It sounds like this thief isn't harming anyone, and she's not taking anything from anyone who needs it." She pauses and considers for a moment. "Where do the goods end up?"

The Qunari shrugs and scowls at the ground. "It is not certain. Many say that there is more business in the Alienage of late, though."

Hawke pulls rope from her belt and she and the others set to tying up the unconscious men while Aiden sets a magical barrier around the lead thief to keep her from getting away. The guy with the broken nose begs in unintelligible words not to be tied and Hawke shoves him from the alleyway after removing every weapon from his person. The thief rouses as she finishes the final knot around her men. The cloak has fallen back to reveal pointed elven ears laced through with silver. Straight auburn hair is held from jade green eyes by two delicate braids that loop back behind her ears. She has deep bronze skin and delicate elven features similar to Merrill's, but she has a dark glitter in her eyes and a set to her jaw that ruins any further resemblance.

"So you steal from nobles, huh?" Hawke asks, folding her arms on her chest and staring at the elven woman. She can't resist a smirk at the thought; it's not an entirely bad plan, and she rather likes the girl for making all those dundering nobles look as foolish as they are.

The elf shrugs and tilts her head back. "Why, do you steal from elves?"

Gayle snorts. "What have elves got to steal?" Aiden shoots her a murderous glare, but the thief chuckles that same charming yet seductive laugh. Hawke decides to ignore the mages' antics until spells start flying.

"Some of us still have some dignity left," the thief says, her Orlesian accent tempered by a throaty note that might be morbid humor or perhaps simply the enduring harshness of Alienage life. There's a note of irony in her tone, but that glint in her eyes flashes into something a bit more dangerous.

"What's your name?" Hawke asks before yet another person has reason to punch Gayle.

The thief gives her a smirk and does an ironic half-bow in the confines of her barrier. "Dualla Estanus," she answers. "The Rash of Val Royeaux, at your service."

"Interesting title," Hawke comments, raising a brow. "How did you come to be known as a rash?"

Dualla laughs again. She gestures at herself, baring her teeth in a semi-feral grin. "I am an itch beneath the armor of the Chevaliers that they can never scratch, a burning that spreads over the skin of the wealthy that no poultice or powder can halt," she answers. Jade eyes glitter like expensive jewelry, cold as stone or statues. "At least that's what the notices say."

The wording of the notices makes her think of one of the du Launcet's letter that Aveline once showed her, and she thinks of the way the Guardswoman shook her head with an ironic smile and said 'Orlesians.' Hawke snorts and tosses her head. "So you're kind of a big deal around here, huh?" she asks. She's debating whether or not to turn the girl in. After all, Maraas is fast and she managed to land a pretty good shot on his shoulder. Dark red blood oozes from it but he makes no indication that he's bothered in the least. Furthermore, after seeing the Val Royeaux Alienage, Hawke can't argue with the girl's choices. Especially since she got her start thieving as a child, before her family moved to Lothering and no one had anything to steal.

"I've thought about turning my _self_ in for the bounty," Dualla comments with a quirk of her lips. "It's quite the hefty reward."

"It is indeed," Maraas announces. His claws flex and a little spurt of blood issues forth from the shoulder wound.

The thief's eyes dart to the Qunari. "If you're looking for an apology, I'm not sorry that I shot you. You would shoot you too if you were me," she says, squaring her shoulders. Serpent-green eyes flash again. "Besides, I missed," she smirks at him. "You're faster than you look."

Hawke glances sidelong at her companion, holding in the question she has. Maraas glances between both women and shrugs with one shoulder. "It does not hurt," he rumbles to Hawke. To Dualla, he says, "I am many things other than what I appear."

"I see that," the thief answers, nodding her head once. Her eyes shift around to Hawke once more as her primary interrogator. "If you want to have the Rash of Val Royeaux fighting at your side, then I will gladly join you for anything you need in exchange for my freedom. If you want my bounty, go ahead and take me in." She shrugs, but her eyes harden a moment later as they meet Hawke's. "You won't live long enough to enjoy it, I assure you."

"How do I know you won't kill me in my sleep if I hire you?" Hawke asks, raising her eyebrows.

Dualla purses her lips and smirks slowly. "I suppose you have nothing but my word. You did not kill any of my people, although they would have killed you," she shrugs. "Their injuries may serve as a lesson to them in the future." Her eyes sharpen for a moment. "Though a cut of profits is always an excellent incentive for loyalty, too."

Aiden snorts behind her. "That and the pissy elf she's sleeping with," he comments. Hawke turns around to see him snickering like a schoolboy.

Next to him, Gayle giggles as well, blue eyes glinting with all the evil of the Tevinter Imperium. "What woman wouldn't want a man with such a big sword?" she asks, barely able to restrain her laughter enough to finish the sentence. To further the embarrassment, Dualla chuckles that sultry Orlesian laugh and Maraas stares at her with raised brows and a bemused set to his mouth.

"I've a dagger for each of you," Hawke snaps at the mages. They laugh harder and she bites the inside of her cheek. Maker, she misses Varric and Isabela. Though now that she thinks of it, she can imagine the two of them saying exactly that, though with considerably more grace. And a bit more intimidation would help, too. After all, she and Fenris aren't some weak-willed sappy couple who spends their time mooning around over each other. With some effort, she turns her attention back to Dualla. "And what's in it for me if I work with you?"

The thief smirks. "I have some... useful contacts. You would have access to that information, too," she offers.

Maraas shakes his large head. "I am not convinced. We should kill the thief and bring her to those who would pay her bounty," he announces, amethyst eyes tracking Dualla in spite of the movement of his head.

Hawke suppresses a sigh. Yes, her new companions were just as vocal as the last group. "What kind of contacts do you have?" she asks instead.

Dualla shrugs a fluid shrug to make the cloak ripple around her shoulders, a surprisingly ratty contrast to her lovely armor. "What kind of contacts do you need?" she asks. "I can tell you who's in bed with who and who wants who's blood. Or, if you'd prefer, I know where you can find a _fantastic_ cake-maker right her in the Alienage." Her voice lowers a trifle and she smirks again. "She's recently come into some high quality ingredients."

The sigh can't be suppressed any longer. Hawke spreads her hands in a semi-helpless gesture. "It can't hurt to have an inside ear to the workings of the Empress's court," she answers. "How reliable are your sources?"

"I trust their word," Dualla replies. She tilts her head back a trifle to stare Hawke in the eye. Though she smirks as she continues, her gaze and tone are serious. "I have a policy of honor among thieves in my network. And I have the means to enforce it."

"Very well," she mutters. "Aiden, let her go. Dualla, if you're serious about helping, then meet us at the inn where we're staying at the lunch hour."

"Which inn is that?" the thief asks innocently, rearranging her cloak around her shoulders when the barrier around her dissipates. Hawke realizes that she wears the cloak to conceal her fine armor while she's in the Alienage by the way she pins it shut over her chest so that only mud-caked boots are visible.

Hawke growls in her throat and realizes she's starting to sound like Fenris. She clears her throat and says, "The, uh, The Fancy Dancer."

Aiden and Gayle snicker behind her and it occurs to Hawke that it's a good thing she's never had children. Even Maraas curls his lip a bit at the name, and Hawke has to agree. The names of shops and inns in Orlais are invariably frilly and stupid-sounding, and this inn is no exception. Dualla, the native Orlesian, takes it in stride, though, blinking at the laughter and expressions of disgust and nodding briskly. "A good place if one wishes to keep an ear to the ground," the thief says. "And their stew isn't bad, either. I shall see you at noon."

Before they go, Hawke yanks the arrow from the Qunari giant's shoulder, which he endures without so much as flinching. Aiden mutters a healing spell and Maraas holds up his hand to stall the mage. "No," he says, dark purple eyes troubled. "I do not wish your healing magic."

Hawke raises a brow as the other stare at her. "Why not?" she asks. "Your wound could slow you down."

But Maraas shakes his great, horned head in a slow arc. "My wound shall not slow me. It shall remind me of my failings, that I do not fail as such again. Magic would destroy that honor," he explains.

"Then at least take care of it when we get back. Bandages and such," Hawke says briskly. She hesitates a second and glances at him. "An interesting idea, though."

"Whatever," Aiden mutters behind her.

As they leave the Alienage, Maraas scowls at Hawke sidelong. "It is not wise to trust in a thief," he rumbles. She feels like a small child under that glower. "Do you not recall the chaos a thief once caused for the Qunari and humans alike in Kirkwall?"

"Do _you_ not remember that same thief came back to return the Tome and I killed the Arishok to protect her?" she snaps, rounding the corner back toward the inn. She refuses to think of it as the Fancy Dancer. That, or perhaps that her close friend's betrayal still stings (no longer her best friend since that incident), serves to make her grouchy enough to kick the door open and storm over to the table where Fenris and Brogan are playing cards.

"Cassandra just left to arrange a meeting with Sister Nightingale," Fenris comments, not looking up from his cards and coins. For once in his life, he has a massive stack of coins in front of him. "She said she would be back by noon and we should wait here for her."

Brogan snorts. "At least she's not still sitting here and bitching mightily about the situation," he says, laying out what might well be the worst hand in Wicked Grace. He has nothing.

"Are you serious, dwarf?" Fenris asks him. "You just went all in."

Hawke watches the exchange with narrowed eyes. A dwarf who doesn't want treasure and is so terrible at cards that even Merrill could beat him just seems too much coincidence for her taste. She sits next to Fenris and Maraas takes her other side as the mages settle to either side of the dwarf. Her elven lover has a fairly bad hand himself, and Hawke wonders for a moment just how hard one has to cheat for Fenris to win. She tried it once at the Hanged Man years ago and learned from the experience that it takes considerable skill to lose to him consistently.

"This might be the worst card game I've ever seen," Aiden comments, peering across the table at Fenris' hand.

"How many card games have you actually seen?" Brogan asks, not looking up as he shoves the last of his coins toward the elf. "Haven't you spent your whole life in the Circle?"

Aiden makes a huffy noise and folds his arms. "Even us scholarly, sniveling little mages can recognize when something is so bad it stinks."

"What can I say, I don't feel the need to perfume myself with scholarly perfumes and shit when I take my weekly bath," Brogan quips. He stands up and stomps toward the bar irritably. "I need more ale."

Gayle leans over his now-vacant seat and sniffs at Aiden's robe. "Is that _my_ perfume?" she asks, sounding indignant as the elven mage turns red from the collar of his shirt to the pointed tips of his pierced ears.

Hawke goes to her room to do paperwork for a little while, managing her estate and wealth through a series of false front businesses engineered by Varric when they first left the Deep Roads to minimize their losses from the steep tax claims on found treasure that the Viscount's office instituted. By the time the old Amell Estate had been purchased and paid for, though, Hawke was so used to running her finances through the complicated series of investments, secret funds, multiple accounts and false identities that it only made sense to continue, especially as Meredith's hold on the city tightened and Hawke could feel the woman breathing down her neck. It seemed safer to keep her money divvied up and hidden from the insane Knight-Commander, who probably would have frozen her accounts if she'd been able to track them down. Her legitimate holdings were severely taxed during the last year in Kirkwall. After the Gallows incident, it only made sense for her to manage her holdings through Varric's network, trading letters with her friend as the need arose and mostly leaving the management to him. She and Fenris had needed relatively little on the run, only food and the occasional inn to stay at when they didn't hunt and camp. Now that she has so many people following her around, she needs to make sure all of them have their needs taken care of until this group starts making money.

She settles at her desk to write Varric one letter requesting that he shuffle some funds around so that she and her new band of friends can remain at this horribly-named inn for as long as it takes to find more permanent lodging in the city. After that, she composes a longer, more personal letter detailing their adventures as they've traveled and describing each of her companions to him in great detail (i_nteresting tattoos, but still not half as wonderful a dwarf as you- this meek little elf scholar who's as broody as Fenris and as mad as Merrill when it comes to blood magic- can you imagine a Tevinter Magister following __me__ around- still as frighteningly Qunari-looking as any of them, but would you believe his eyes are purple?_).

A tap at her door interrupts her as she pens a vivid description of Dualla's fashionable Orlesian armor, filled with appropriately flowery language. "Come in," Hawke calls, setting down her quill and turning in her chair to face the intruder.

Cassandra stands in the doorway with Leliana a step behind her. Both women hurry inside and shut the door behind them. They stand in front of Hawke and Leliana draws her hood back over her red hair.

"It is not safe for me to stay here long," she says, "So I shall be brief. There are two competing candidates for the position of the Divine. The Grand Clerics have called together a council to vote for the heir. Each of these women is as different as night is from day. Their names are Danielle du'Maurier and Elise l'Verde. Each one has requested an audience with you and Cassandra."

"Tell me about Danielle," Hawke says, shifting in her chair and crossing her arms.

"Danielle was the second daughter of the Comte du'Maurier, betrothed at birth to the son of the Comte du'Launcet. But the du'Launcet boy was a mage, and so the betrothal was broken. Danielle was educated in the Chantry, and took her vows as a teenager rather than be betrothed and married off to a new husband. Losing her betrothed to the Circle has colored her views to be more sympathetic with mages. She would see that the Circles are never rebuilt, that the Seekers spend their efforts ridding Thedas of the Templars, rather than controlling dangerous mages. Her secluded life has made her unaware of any dangers that magic may pose, and she believes that the best way to make peace with the mages is to remove the Templars in a show of good faith," Leliana explains. She has a faint, troubled frown. "I know that she means well, but she does not comprehend the danger that blood magic poses. Her leniency could well cause trouble down the road."

"Still, it is admirable. What about this Elise l'Verde?" Hawke asks.

Leliana grimaces. "Elise is the orphaned daughter of a minor noble house that was destroyed when her parents attempted to hide her elder brother from the Templars. He could not control his magic and was slain by the Templars when he turned into an abomination, but not before he killed Elise's entire family before her eyes. The Chantry took her in and raised her and that one horrific experience has made her terrified of mages and magic. She believes that the Circle should be rebuilt even more strictly, that the Templar order should kill any mage caught using blood magic and should render tranquil any mage who does not go to the Circle before the age of ten. It is her belief that the mages will rise up and form a new, more fearsome Tevinter Imperium and that they will enslave the nonmagical peoples of Thedas. She is as ruthless as Danielle is lenient, but she is a shrewd minded woman and is not completely without mercy. You might be able to appeal to her better nature."

"Is there no one else up for the position?" Hawke says, raising her brows. Both women sound like appalling options- while Hawke supports mages having freedom, she's seen all too well what that freedom can cost others. And what happens when a mage goes mad, or gives in to temptation. The results are horrible, and the idea of letting such offenses go unpunished is unthinkable. But to instill a harsher, more stifling Circle would only cause a Kirkwall-esque powder keg with a more terrible explosion than the last one.

"I am afraid not. You must go and speak to these women, hear of their views from them. I do not have any more information about them, but my contacts are investigating them as we speak," Leliana answers. She sighs.

"Why do they want to speak to me?" Hawke asks.

Both Cassandra and Leliana blink. "You are the Champion of Kirkwall. You were there when everything began," Cassandra interjects. "That is why I was sent to find you in the first place."

"She speaks the truth. Whomever you support to lead the Chantry will most likely win the vote. But it shall be complicated to garner support," Leliana warns, standing with her hands clasped behind her back as if she is a soldier giving a report. "The nobility of Val Royeaux do not much like foreign influences and though they will smile to your face, they will draw their knives the moment your back is turned. It will require much finesse on your part to navigate the courts of the Empress, and you will need to speak with her as well. Frankly, I am surprised that Empress Celine has not already made contact with you through one of her messengers."

"Perhaps she wants to watch me and be certain of my identity," Hawke comments. It is what she would do, in the Empress' place.

"And to ensure you are no threat to her rule," Leliana adds in a grave tone. She rocks forward on her feet a bit. "You must remember that the Empress has many more tools at her disposal than you can imagine. She has her spies in the Chantry, in the courts, in the streets, and even in this hotel. Never forget that as powerful as she is, her hold is forever tenuous, and that at any moment a thousand assassins wait in a thousand shadows with their knives aimed at thousands of different targets. Any moment here in Val Royeaux could be your last, and very well might be if you do not keep your wits about you at all times."

Hawke nods and stands up as Leliana bows and pulls the hood over her head. She and Cassandra watch the redhead leave and she sighs when the door shuts. "Nothing I haven't dealt with before," she mutters, pinching the bridge of her nose to ward off a headache.

Cassandra clears her throat and Hawke looks at her. "I must take my leave for the rest of the day, Champion," she announces. "I have resumed my post among the Seekers of Val Royeaux, so that we may remain well-informed, and so that I may offer some protection with my position." Her back is straight, her armor shining as it hasn't since they got on the ruddy boat over to Orlais. At least one of her companions is more helpful than crazy.

"Good plan," she says, not mincing words. "Thank you for letting me know. Where shall I go to keep in touch with you?"

A faint smile graces the Seeker's face. "You can find me at the Chantry Cathedral, in the underground barracks. I will show you the entrance when you come." Then, with a bow, Cassandra Pentaghast exits the room with confident, clanking footsteps that remind her a bit of Aveline.

Hawke settles back into her chair with a sigh. She needs to finish her letters to Varric and send them immediately. It looks like this is going to be a long stay in Val Royeaux.

* * *

><p>Next chapter: Politics and mayhem, from the two women competing for the role of the Divine to the Empress' court. But some familiar faces will return :-D<p> 


	6. Discontent in the Cathedral

Thank you, reviewers. Your support keeps me (doggedly) pursuing this piece. Sorry for the space between updates; I'm working on too many projects, on-site and off.

In this chapter: Things get complicated.

**warnings: **party banter, grouchy Hawke, some death and violence and new foes! Also politics. Mild language and sensuality. Dualla and Aiden make commentary.

* * *

><p>After Leliana leaves, Hawke finishes up her letters to Varric and heads downstairs to gather a group and head to the Cathedral. There's really no good choice, but Brogan immediately begs off and Maraas stands out too much. So does Fenris, but she'd rather have him at her back than attempt to drag a former Magister onto holy ground-she's not entirely sure Gayle won't burst into flames. Dualla's not an option; the elf woman introduces herself with good humor and then proceeds to listen to the proceedings with an intensity that reveals how valuable such information is.<p>

"Don't bloody sell this information, Dualla," Hawke hisses across the table, narrowing her eyes. "I'm serious."

The elf woman smirks and tosses a few locks of dark red hair over her shoulder. "It's already been sold, and is being sold, and shall be sold for the next several nights," she shrugs, her Orlesian accent drawing out vowels and rolling over consonants. "It is the way of things in Val Royeaux. You must find a safer meeting place if you mean to keep your affairs private."

It dawns on Hawke that, upon scanning the room, the bustle of patrons includes several people around them with their heads cocked near the conversation. "Any suggestions?" she asks dryly, raising her eyebrows.

Dualla grins. "I thought you'd never ask." She shifts in her chair and leans forward with her elbows on the table. "Meet me tonight, outside of the Alienage. Bring a mage and some muscle." Her eyes flick to Maraas and her grin sharpens a trifle. "The bastard who knocked me out will do nicely." She pats the table twice and stands up then, glancing around the group. For a moment her smirk drifts between Hawke and Fenris, who sits close enough that their shoulders and arms touch from time to time as they talk. "I will see you then. For now, I have business to attend to."

Aiden opens his mouth as if to say something and then thinks better of it, snapping his jaw shut with a click when Hawke glares at him. Finally he leans over to Brogan on his right and mutters, "All these bloody prickly women."

"I heard that," Hawke, Cassandra, Gayle and even Dualla snap in unison, scowling at him from every side of the table as well as the door.

Thankfully, the mage remains fairly quiet as they make their way toward the Cathedral. Up close, it is even more splendid, with slender crystal windows that run into high pointed arches like massive arrow-slits that glitter with intricate silver patterns in the design of the panes. The white walls seem to be some spectacular matte marble with traces of gold dusting along it, and brilliant silver plaques beneath each window illustrate the story of Andraste in painstakingly realistic detail. A massive statue of the Bride of the Maker stands in the courtyard, made of white marble, gold, and silver. The price of such a statue could probably fix the misery in the Alienage for decades to come. Behind the statue rise the elegant double doors, carved of mahogany wood and inlaid with silver veins that had woven spiraling patterns similar to Fenris' tattoos.

Cassandra bows her head a moment before they enter, not speaking. Then she looks at Hawke and nods. "Both Elise and Danielle are here," she says. "To whom do you wish to speak first?"

Hawke considers this as they enter the Cathedral, but her thoughts are disrupted by the sight. The tall, thin windows fill the place with light and shadow that play off the diagonally-arranged pews in the front area. A massive altar laden with flickering candles lies to the rear, and flowers of every color fill the spaces between the candles, which are positioned before a smaller version of the courtyard statue behind the altar. Large hallways lead off past the altar to either side, and the high, arching ceiling has balconies above the lower set of windows, filled with red-robed Chanters.

Thick, dark red carpet leads down the aisle to the altar and off the side corridors, and Cassandra indicates that she should move down the aisle, toward the altar. A few people are scattered around the pews, but for the most part they are Sisters or Brothers and do not stir in their prayers. Hawke feels like an intruder as she walks down the blood-colored carpet.

"Danielle," she decides, and Cassandra gestures to the right.

The ceiling is lower here, and they pass by smaller chapels and rooms full of candles and praying people before stopping at a closed door. At their knock, a muffled voice calls, "Come in," and they enter a spacious lounge with large windows in the same shape as the ones in the main Cathedral, albeit less intricately paned. On the indoor walls there are several spectacular paintings of Andraste and of the city. Red couches sit against the walls and a second, smaller chamber shows a cluttered desk with a few comfortable chairs. A round woman with blue eyes and graying brown hair smiles at them.

"Champion," says the woman, rising and moving around her desk to shake Hawke's hand. "I am Danielle du'Maurier, as I am sure you have been informed." She smiles kindly. "I must congratulate you on your work in Kirkwall. I am sure you did not mean it to come to war, and there is still a chance that we might be able to prevent such a ghastly thing from sweeping Thedas." She clasps Hawke's hand in soft, pudgy hands that lack callouses. "I would see that the mages remain free, of course, and with you as my ally I believe we may yet achieve that goal."

Gentle and kindly as she appears, she grips Hawke's hand a trifle too hard and too long. She glimpses Fenris as his eyes narrow and notices Cassandra's straight-backed posture as the Seeker's eyes follow the exchange. "Pleased to meet you," she says after a moment, withdrawing her hand. She watches the soft face and the glittering, bright eyes. "But I should make it clear that I am no one's ally until I have assessed them for myself." Her voice grows cold, but Danielle does not flinch.

Instead, the sweet mask falls away and the woman moves back around her desk. "Very well, Champion," she says, her tone one of business rather than matronly comfort. "I believe we have common ideals. I would see the mages remain free, that the Templars are removed and the Seekers instead relegated to protecting mages and dealing with mage-related crimes. I think you'll agree that the Templars are beyond saving, as out of control as they've become." Her eyes narrow a trifle. "You saw what Meredith became when she was exposed to that lyrium idol. Its influence even affected Orsino and drove him to blood magic, as insane as it was." She rifles through a series of papers and comes across one that she passes to Hawke. "This is a report from a squad of Seekers moving through Fereldan. It seems that a shipment of lyrium mixed with dragon's blood was stolen from Orzamar and distributed from Denerim to the Free Marches."

Hawke scans the report and her eyes widen as she sees the squad casualties. She passes the paper back to du'Maurier. "What does this mixture do?" she asks warily. A sick sense of foreboding clenches her guts and she hears Aiden shift uncomfortably behind her.

"This blood-lyrium has given the Templars even greater power, but at a greater price. Their souls are traded for such power. They feast upon death, any death, with greed and twisted pleasure," Danielle answers, her voice quiet and serious. "Those men driven mad by lyrium addiction hunger for this new blood-lyrium and will stop at nothing to get it. And once it falls into their possession... they become half-men. Soulless and deprived of anything but a need for blood."

"That's horrible. How did that even happen?" Aiden chokes behind her.

The warriors frown. So does Hawke, her mouth compressing in a line. "This is the fault of the Chantry, you know," she says coolly. "If you had not addicted them to lyrium in the first place, the Templars would not have become such a mad plague upon the land."

Du'Maurier's face tightens a bit. "I certainly did not support such a practice," she huffs, her Orlesian accent thickening in irritation. Then her voice softens and becomes almost conciliatory as she urges, "I mean only to put the Seekers temporarily to use to rid us of the Templars, and to help train a new Templar order. One that can serve as protectors first and police force second, only if necessary and after proper investigation alongside the City Guards. Templars that do not use lyrium or rely upon it to enhance their skills." Her voice grows quiet and serious, bright eyes narrowing a trifle. "I understand that power can be dangerous in the wrong hands, Champion. These Templars prove it as much as blood mages. I would see that mages live normal lives, educating themselves and learning to use their power as the Maker intended, to serve mankind. How can magic serve when it is locked away or stamped out?" She spreads her hands as if uttering a prayer, the gesture graceful and powerful.

"A pleasant ideal, but is it wise to leave mages to their own devices?" Fenris asks in a dark tone. "Already they flee to Tevinter."

"Not all of them," Aiden grumbles sourly.

"I will think on what you've said," Hawke answers, nodding curtly. Benevolent as Danielle appears, there is more to her than meets the eye.

She and the others leave, and Cassandra leads them across the main area of the Cathedral to the other wing, this time stopping at a nearer door. The office is smaller, without all of the comforts of Danielle's. A woman with short, steely hair and sharp gray eyes looks at them across a tidy desk that sits in front of a shelves of ordered books. Rather than Chantry robes, she wears Seeker armor and a large warhammer leans against the desk in arm's reach. Her chairs are serviceable but not ornate or plush, and her walls lack any form of artwork. Only the windows serve to decorate the room.

"Champion," says the hard-faced woman, rising to greet her and offering a firm handshake without holding onto her. Though she moves around the desk to shake hands, she stays close to the hammer, never letting it get out of reach. "I am surprised you came." She does not make any pretense at sweetness and for all that she's heard of the woman's harsh attitudes, Hawke finds herself admiring the honesty.

"I thought I would at least hear you out," she answers, standing straight. "I have heard some disturbing news about the Templars."

Elise nods grimly. "Some alchemists and rogue mages worked together with Carta to form the blood-lyrium. We are attempting to track down the thieves even now," she answers. She does not move behind the desk but remains standing in front of it with a straight-backed posture similar to Cassandra's. "I ask that you keep this information quiet, Champion, because it could spark a wave of protest, fear, and sympathy for the mages among the citizens. It is dangerous enough without citizens harboring dangerous apostates or colluding with blood mages."

Hawke tries not to scowl at Elise as the other woman speaks to her about the dangers of mages. Cassandra still stands with a straight back, her face a mask without expression, and she can see Fenris nodding out of the corner of her eye. They'll be having a talk about this later. As in, he can bunk with Brogan and Aiden for a night. "I think that people have the right to know, so they can protect themselves," she answers. "What if these blood-crazed Templars come through Val Royeaux? There will be slaughter and you will lose sympathies in even greater numbers for your deception."

"I recognize the risks. But there would be panic if it were public information. As it stands, the Chevaliers have been notified and the Seekers are hunting down these monstrous men before they can do too much harm." Elise pauses and her sharp eyes narrow faintly as she studies Hawke. "You clearly know my stance. I believe that the Circles should be reinstated and the Templars should be more thoroughly policed by the Seekers. We must all be more vigilant in the face of such troubling times. I do not expect your assistance in obtaining the position of the Divine, but I intend to hold that title in either case. I would see that you will not stand openly against me, however. I do not ask your support, just that you consider the danger of Danielle's plans to disband the Templars and leave mages to reign free."

"She said she intended to rebuild a Templar order that was free of lyrium. That the Seekers would train them," Hawke says, frowning. It did sound rather like a concession, instead of part of Danielle's original plan.

"Not in the least," Elise answers. "I intend to rebuild the order that way. To teach the Templars vigilance and justice, rather than blind hatred. I am not unreasonable. But mages must be educated and their power contained. Even if they could be trusted not to become abominations or go mad with power, people will never fully accept them. Mages are different from the rest of us, different from you and me. The average person fears them and despises them." She pauses and then adds, "Perhaps that is the Chantry's fault. Still, it will take a long time to reverse such a prejudice, and the Circle is as much for their protection from civilians as it is to protect citizens from mages."

If only Hawke could detect that bind hatred for mages, that burgeoning insanity that she saw roiling in Meredith as time went on. But instead she sees in this woman's eyes battle-sharpened wit and experience and the accompanying wisdom. Leliana suggested appealing to her compassion and so she does. "What if the Chantry took a more active role in reeducating people? Then the Circle could be for holding dangerous mages, while others were able to learn and live and be free."

A gray eyebrow arches in response and Elise studies her for a long moment. "Perhaps there is something to your idea, Champion, but absolute freedom creates a desire for power. Didn't you climb through the ranks from refugee to nobility to Champion of Kirkwall in the span of a few years?" she points out. "Mages who desire greater power turn to dangerous means. They must be contained, but perhaps the Circles could be established for different purposes. Fereldan, for example, might be well-suited for the adventurous souls who are not yet truly dangerous, as it is difficult to escape across Lake Calanhad. Kirkwall would serve as an excellent prison. And Val Royeaux, of course, would be for educating youngsters and for the scholarly among the mages."

Hawke narrows her eyes. "That's not what I meant," she grumbles, folding her arms.

Elise shrugs. "In the end, Champion, your choice is between the lesser of two evils. I do not deny that it disappoints me, even hurts me to be unable to allow mages their freedom. But the cost of that freedom is too high, as we have well seen. I would see order restored and past mistakes rectified." She glances at the others, who have remained silent until now. "Consider carefully what you decide to do, Champion. Your choices could save or doom us all."

"Don't I know it," Hawke mutters, prompting snorts from Aiden and Fenris.

"But that is not why I sought you out, Champion," says Elise, moving around her desk and pulling a folder from a drawer without hesitation. She opens the folder and glances at the topmost page. "There is a group of apostates hiding outside of the city, on the north side of Lake Celestine. Our Seekers have reported a group of blood-Templars are moving up from across the Dales. The Seekers do not know if they will arrive in time to stop the Templars, and predict terrible casualties even if they do."

"You want me to help them capture apostates?" Hawke asks flatly. She raises her eyebrows. "I don't lock mages up."

"If you do not go to the Seekers' aid, those mages will surely die at Templar hands," Elise snaps the folder shut, her eyes narrowing. "Choose carefully, Champion. You will be well-compensated for your efforts."

Sighing, Hawke leaves. Off to the bloody lake, then, she thinks, trying not to sigh. Of course she can't take everyone, so the question remains who to bring and who to leave behind? She glances at Cassandra. The woman must be eager to help, but she'll be of more use here, where she knows people and can resume her duties. Dualla, too, should remain with her underworld connections. It's probably best to keep Gayle close, so she can keep an eye on her. Fenris will want to come, but she feels that he can do more good back in Orlais, much as she hates to part ways with him.

"Let's get back to the inn," she sighs, rubbing her forehead. "I suppose we'll have to pack up and get ready for tomorrow." She'll tell Fenris in private that he isn't coming, because it will inevitably cause a shouting match.

Cassandra turns to face her. "I am going to report to my post," she says, "And speak with my captain. Will you require me to join you?"

Hawke shakes her head. "You'll do more good here, Cassandra," she answers. "Get back in the swing of things and keep an ear out for what's going on." Her eyes shift to Aiden. "You're staying behind, too. Don't cause trouble." The elf mage scowls but does not protest.

Fenris eyes her as Cassandra heads off. "And me? Do you intend to leave me behind as well?" he asks, his voice growing a bit harsh with the demand. There's no escaping it, she realizes, staring into her lover's eyes.

But as she opens her mouth, a boy rushes over to them. "Champion!" he cries, halting in front of her and panting for breath from his run. "Champion, a lady gave me this letter to give to you." He shoves a piece of parchment into her hand and stares at her for a long moment. Then Fenris scowls and the boy darts off, disappearing into the crowd and leaving Hawke to read the message.

_Champion:  
>There are many secrets brewing in this city, and many treacheries abound. A conspiracy is being put together against you and dangerous forces seek to prevent you from acquiring any power or notice her in Orlais. There are those who seek your downfall, but there are others who support you and wish to offer you aid. Meet me in one week's time in front of the Cathedral.<em>

The letter has no signature or marking of who wrote it, but the parchment is fine enough to suggest nobility. Hawke crumples the letter and tosses it to Aiden. "Burn this," she says, and turns to walk back to the Inn to prepare for the journey. The elves raise their brows and she notices that Fenris goes to hover over the mage's shoulder while they both read the words. Then, in a puff of black flame, the parchment disintegrates and the ashes blow away down the street.

"Not a wise choice, using magic on the steps of the Cathedral like that," Fenris comments. Hawke strides toward the inn ahead of them, vowing not to get embroiled in their debate.

She can hear Aiden's shrug. "You heard them. The Templars are a greater threat than the mages at this point in time," he answers.

"And do you truly believe that shall remain the case? Once the Templars have been wiped out, the mages will have nothing left to keep them in check, no one they fear to keep them from turning to dangerous magic," Fenris argues. "Already many flee to Tevinter to learn the secrets of blood magic and Magisters."

"Maybe the crazy Templars drove them there," Aiden quips. Hawke resists a strong urge to smack herself in the forehead as he continues, "Maybe if there were a few more enlightened mages in Tevinter, it wouldn't be such an awful place. Have you considered that the new mages might actually make the Magisters start to reconsider their behavior?"

Fenris snorts. "You know nothing about the Magisters if you speak of them like that."

"Gayle was a Magister. She fled Tevinter rather than use blood magic to control others," Aiden responds, his voice rising. Hawke steals a backward glance at his red cheeks to ensure that he isn't doing anything too obvious, like sparkling or oozing smoky spirit energy. "I'm not saying that she isn't a racist, slave-owning bitch, but she's not evil. No more than any other woman, anyway," he mutters almost as an afterthought. Hawke restrains a chuckle at the comment.

"You know nothing of the Magisters, as I said," Fenris ends the conversation with those words, walking ahead to catch up to Hawke.

They round the corner and the Prancing Pony comes into view, with the hideous, brightly-painted sign of a frilly horse rearing on its hind legs hanging over the door. Hawke sighs as she steps inside, wishing any place in the city didn't have such a stupid name, and notes that Dualla has joined Gayle and Maraas in helping Brogan's massive losing streak. As they approach, she can hear their conversation through the midday din of patrons.

"You are very talented indeed to lose so consistently, Dwarf," purrs Dualla as she eyes Brogan across the table.

He grunts in answer and narrows his eyes at her. "You must have me confused with someone else, Bard," he says, faking a good-natured grin. But both Maraas and Gayle are too intelligent to be fooled now that it's been pointed out, and both intent gazes fix on the exchange.

The elf snorts. "You flatter me to call me a bard. But that Qunari who beat me around the head yesterday is genuinely bad and you manage to lose even to him," she replies, jerking her chin at Maraas, who appears unperturbed at her assessment. "And the mage isn't much better. I'm guessing they don't play cards in Tevinter or Par Vollen, but I know that they play cards in Orzammar."

"We use cards in Tevinter," Gayle protests, her fanned cards dipping toward the table with their faces up.

"For what, rituals?" Dualla counters, nodding at the visible hand of cards. Snatching her cards close to her chest again, the blonde Magister shuts her mouth and scowls. The auburn-haired elf smirks and settles back in her chair, glancing up as Hawke and the other elves join their group. Her attention fixes once more on Brogan and her smirk grows into a slow, predatory grin. "It takes a true master to cheat toward losing. Or a man with nothing to live for." She spreads her perfect hand on the table between them and says, in a low voice, "So which are you, Dwarf?"

Brogan mutters something about needing more ale and shuffles toward the bar despite the nearby waitress. Dualla catches Hawke's eye and lifts one shoulder in a faint, dainty half-shrug as she gathers the cards to shuffle and deal a new round. Before she can sit, however, Fenris grabs her elbow and hauls her off to their bedroom. She overhears the elf woman's cheeky voice saying to the mages, "Well you certainly weren't kidding about the handsome elf roughing her around at night." Hawke resolves to make her pay for that. All three of them, actually. But, as the strong fingers gripping her arm can attest, now is not the time.

"You're not taking me along?" Fenris demands, slamming the door behind them. His green eyes have a furious gleam to them. "I will not see you run off to face these mad blood-Templars on your own."

"I need you to stay here," she snaps. She takes a breath and steadies her voice to a more reasonable tone. "I need you to keep an eye out on the others. Because I don't trust anyone else to keep things moving here, and because I don't trust anyone else to tell me everything that happens while I'm gone." Hawke gives him what she hopes is a pleading look. "I can't risk everything falling to hell because I'm not around."

"Who are you bringing? The Qunari deserter?" he yells, swinging a hand to knock the ceramic water pitcher from the small dresser. Hawke refuses to back away and he seizes her shoulders. "I swore to you I would never leave you again and now you plan to leave me behind?"

"It's only a bloody week!" she shouts, her tenuous composure crumbling.

He glares at her and his breath seethes across her face. "I don't like this, Hawke," he growls. "The situation here is too messy for us to be apart. Already the schemes and politics rival Kirkwall's worst and we have been in this city for all of two days." Fenris shifts his grip to something that is at once tender and desperate, pleading and stronger without the violence his lithe form usually contains. "You should take me along."

"You don't have to like it," Hawke answers, her short patience expended. "You just have to live with it." Her eyes remain steady on his and she tries to keep her glower fierce and flinty as his scowl returns. But when he hauls her in and starts kissing her with a combination of frustration, urgency, and likely some determination to change her mind, her previous resolve to make him sleep elsewhere crumbles. They stagger toward the bed in a fumbled pile of armor and clothing.

* * *

><p>Hawke walks alongside Dualla as the elf leads them through the winding streets, past ornate inns and shops and houses, and into the poorest districts. They finally arrive at an old house with chipped yellow paint and fading embrium murals on the walls. A small sign with a picture of a bouquet of embrium and harlot's blush proclaimed it 'Sylvie's Bouquet Shoppe.' Not as bad a name as the Prancing Pony. But the windows look dark, boarded up, and the door hangs somewhat askew. Dualla pushes in and after glancing back at Fenris and Aiden, Hawke follows.<p>

Inside, Sylvie's is filled with a vast and colorful array of flowers and tiny, whimsical trinkets. A girl in front nods at Dualla as the elven archer leads them through a moth-eaten velvet curtain in the back of the shop. This room has a musty smell, dimly lit by candles. The shelves are filled with tomes of magic and history, with potions and herbs and ritual supplies. Fenris glowers and hunches a bit, but Aiden grins and gazes around, the happiest she's ever seen him. Like a child in a sweetshop. An elderly woman sits at a desk in the far corner, poring over a book by candlelight and mixing together herbs and ingredients for potions. She glances up from her work to beam at them and nod to Dualla, her hands never ceasing their deft motion as they chop herbs and mix liquids with powders.

Now Dualla leads them to a small shrine that consists of candles and flowers before a statue of Andraste. She takes a candle and moves behind the shrine, motioning for them to follow.

"Isn't it blasphemous to steal things from Andraste?" Aiden murmurs. No one answers him as they follow Dualla.

There's a trapdoor behind the shrine. The auburn-haired elf crouches over it, her fingers finding some hidden catch to make it lift up. She descends first, holding the candle, and Hawke sees in the light behind her a long series of narrow stairs. Aiden follows behind her and Fenris brings up the rear. The mage mutters something and a strange dark purple light rises above them. At the bottom of the stairs there's a tunnel and Dualla leads them along it, disarming a series of traps along the way. In spite of the many traps, no one comes up to challenge them. It makes her uneasy, and she can see by the tense set of the other woman's shoulders and the muttered Orlesian swearwords that Dualla is even more perturbed.

Then they hear a distant thunder, like an explosion. On the left side of the tunnel's branch rise shouts and the clanging of battle. Dualla sprints down that tunnel without waiting for the others. Cursing, Hawke rushes after her. The tunnel veers and it's only the trailing of the elf's cape around corners that prevents Hawke and the others from losing her. They burst into a room full of crates and barrels and desks, many overturned, hacked to pieces or in flames. A combination of elven and dwarven bodies litter the floor and a single elf man attempts to fight off a large cluster of Carta thugs. Dualla is already picking them off, firing arrow after arrow in rapid succession, but the man is losing blood from dozens of stab wounds and he staggers, barely conscious.

Hawke dives in just as Fenris does, and sizzling dark bolts of magic hiss through the air from Aiden. He slams several foes to the ground, slicing through vulnerable backs as Hawke flips over the entire group and lands on the other side, each dagger finding purchase in a separate neck and twisting. One dwarf turns toward her and her foot lashes out. In seconds the remaining Carta thugs are retreating through a back passage. Fenris sprints after them. Shouts echo from the dark and end in abrupt noises of slicing flesh and thuds.

The elf man drops to his knees as Dualla sprints over to cradle his head and shoulders. Looking at them, they have the same tan and the same auburn hair, their elven features more similar than hers are to Aiden's, or Fenris'. Hawke realizes as the Rash of Val Royeaux strokes the mans hair and weeps over his face that they are siblings, perhaps even twins.

"What were they doing here?" Hawke asks, crouching at his other side.

Dualla's brother blinks and coughs, blood oozing from his mouth. "They were looking for some kind of special lyrium. They claimed it had been stolen by a dwarf they tracked to the city," he moans. His hand grips Dualla's, blood slick fingers slipping around hers.

Hawke's heart sinks. Brogan. "Do you have blood lyrium?" she asks.

"No, we don't," snaps Dualla. "We don't trade with Templars. They are too unpredictable and of late, too dangerous."

Her brother coughs and gags a bit. "I'm so sorry, Dualla. We didn't expect them," he whispers, his voice fading.

"No," she cries. She shakes him a bit, tears streaming down her face now. "Gaius, _no_!" Desperate, furious eyes turn to Aiden. "Heal him, mage," she snarls, but he's shaking his head helplessly. Dualla grips her brother closer to her chest, now covered in his blood. "_Heal him_," she screams, her voice cracking painfully.

"I can't," whispers Aiden, looking down. Fenris also looks away from the raw grief.

Gaius coughs and murmurs something to Dualla. "I'll still look out for you," he whispers, and then his eyes close and with a final shudder, he goes still. She clings to the front of his shirt for a long moment and then stands up and lunges to punch Aiden. Hawke and Fenris, too startled by her sudden movement, are unable to stop the first blow that cracks across his face, but the lyrium-laced warrior seizes Dualla's arms before she can attack him any further.

It takes several minutes to calm her down. Hawke realizes this was the hideout she meant for their gang to use for meetings, or at least one of the rooms in this underground warren. Another elf, one of Dualla's higher-ranking thieves, introduces himself as Lucien and shows them through several rooms as the dead are dealt with and Dualla led to her quarters with a mug of brandy. Aiden and Fenris return to the Inn to explain the situation and Hawke remains to assess the security of the place.

"There was a blast about the time the Carta attacked and several of us hurried over. However the tunnels are complicated and the storeroom is isolated from the rest of the rooms," Lucien explains. He is serious and has mousy brown hair and keen blue eyes. He reminds her a bit of a criminal version of Seneschal Bran, walking with his hands behind his back and pausing to gesture at various places like dining areas and sleeping quarters. "The Warren is very secure. The Carta clearly had to tunnel in from elsewhere and used the explosion to kill most of the guards. It is fortunate that our men are fast... or perhaps not." There is a tone of regret as he glances at the fallen bodies in the storeroom.

"Do you have anywhere that people could meet and discuss business without being overheard?" Hawke asks.

He leads her through several tunnels to a room with a table and several chairs. "This is the meeting room. It is the most secure place, with charms of silence and wards on the walls to prevent any spies from hearing what goes on within," Lucien announces. Hawke notes that several runes and arcane symbols are carved into the stone, glowing faintly with long-term magic. "There is no safer place in all of Val Royeaux," he adds confidently.

"How far do these Warrens extend?" Hawke wonders, peering at the walls and then turning back to her guide.

"From the Alienage to the center of the city," Lucien replies. "There are only entrances at Sylvie's and the Alienage, however. We cannot risk having too many, or the curious may discover us by mistake." His reasoning is sound. Hawke nods in agreement. "Dualla lives here for the most part, but she makes frequent visits to the Alienage. She is always where she must be. Except tonight." His voice sounds soft and weary.

"Thank you for the tour, Lucien," she says. "I believe it's time for me to return to my companions."

She leaves the elves to tend to Dualla, feeling awkward because she doesn't know the other woman well enough to talk her through her grief. To her relief, when she gets outside of Sylvie's, Fenris and Aiden are waiting there with Cassandra. The four of them weave back through the streets, and it turns out to be a damn good thing that her companions joined her, because there might well be more thugs here than in Kirkwall. In a moment of morbid humor, Hawke muses that Assassins, Bards, and Coterie make up the ABC's of crime in Val Royeaux. By the time they reach the Prancing Pony, Aiden is weaving and leaning against her, weak from all of the healing he's done.

Hawke, however, is still furious and in need of answers. She storms inside and up to the table where Brogan is playing cards with Gayle and Maraas, still determined to lose. Her hands smack the wood and coins jump in the center of the table. All three heads turn to stare at her.

"Brogan, we need to talk. Now," she says, growling the last word.

The dwarf turns a look on her of helpless resignation and, with slumped shoulders, follows her upstairs. She slams the door of her room behind her and faces him with crossed arms and a baleful glare. Brogan spreads his hands in a gesture of defeat and hangs his head. When his bright blue eyes meet hers, his bearded face has an expression of nausea and pain that reminds her all too well of Anders' expression as chunks of flaming Chantry rained down.

"What have you done?" she hisses, her heart pounding in terror. Hawke already knows the answer; she can see it in his eyes. As if she really needed a whole boatload of new, troublesome companions to add to all of the problems whirling around. A whole new set of Isabela-and-Relics, Anders-and-Chantries, and Merrill-and-Mirrors.

"You know about the blood-lyrium," he sighs, sinking his face into his hands. But he rubs them down and over his beard in a gesture of anxiety. "And you might as well know that I'm the one who let it get out. It was actually a commission from a group of mages, but I had the connections in Orzammar and when I heard about it, I had to investigate. The alchemist had a few botched recipes, but when I checked them out, the lyrium was still usable." Brogan pauses and shakes his head. "All to make a bit of coin."

"So you stole corrupted lyrium to sell to your Templar clients?" she demands, pacing around the tight space of the room and coming up face-to-face with him. "What kind of fool are you?"

"I was a sodding greedy bastard," Brogan admits, blue eyes shifting away from her face with traces of horror. "They used it right there, in front of me, and as soon as I saw it, I knew it was a mistake. I knew wherever the line was, I had just jumped way past it. I was lucky to get out of there alive. They were more like walking dead than real men, and it was like every time they drew blood it made them stronger, and every wound they suffered made them angrier and more dangerous. They... ate the dead."

Hawke feels a rush of nausea to match his and almost pities him. Almost. "But they can be killed?" she asks, thinking of her journey to Lake Celestine.

He nods. "It's not easy, I'll tell you that much." Brogan snorts and shakes his head. "Decapitation is a sure thing. Magic has almost no effect on them- they seem to absorb spirit energy and get stronger. Fire works, though. And if you can damage them enough that they can't keep coming at you."

"Maker," she mutters, turning away from him and pacing toward the door, pinching the bridge of her nose. She looks over her shoulder. "Does lightning work on them?" she asks, as an afterthought.

Brogan shrugs. "The mage got killed pretty quick. I didn't see any lightning spells, but I can say that they shrugged off frost," he replies. "I'm going with you tomorrow. I'll tell you everything I know along the way." He sighs again and looks withered and smaller than a stocky dwarf ought to. "I didn't even take that much from the alchemist. Only a crate's worth. There were hundreds of crates."

She ponders his earlier words for a moment and asks, "Why would mages order something like that? What were they planning to do with it?"

"Some ancient ritual to control dragons, I think. They didn't give a whole lot of details, but that was the gist of it. Either way, it needed to be perfect. They kept rejecting the alchemist's attempts," he says, shaking his head mournfully. "So there was a huge stockpile of rejected blood-lyrium."

Making a mental note to assign Aiden the task of researching such spells, Hawke nods brusquely. The pieces are starting to fit more and more with every word he utters. "And you traded the location for your life," she says harshly. "You unleashed this plague single-handedly." Perhaps she shouldn't yell at him, seeing as how he seems determined to punish himself, but she can't help it. After all of the betrayals her friends have heaped on her, this one rocks her like the Chantry or the Relic. Brogan has empowered the Templars, given them something that turns them into even more horrific creatures, into creatures more like beasts than men. _ As if they need help on that count_, she thinks sourly.

The dwarf hangs his head again, all the answer she needs. "I saw the way they killed the others," he whispers, squeezing his eyes shut. "It wasn't fast."

Her gorge rises and she nods, trying not to look ill. "Go get some rest, Brogan," she says. "Tomorrow is going to be a long day." As he leaves, Fenris slips inside and she knows her lover heard everything. She wonders in some corner of her mind how many of her companions and how many of the patrons joined in on the eavesdropping, but feels unmotivated to say anything.

"I still do not want you to go without me," Fenris growls as he enters the room. He shoves her toward the bed, lifting the water basin from the dresser and setting it on the windowsill. Prowling closer, the warrior elf brushes a hand over her cheek and tilts her face back for a kiss. When he pulls back he stares at her seriously. "But I will not argue the point in so many words." His voice lowers in pitch and grows husky and he leans in for another kiss. Hawke wraps her arms around his shoulders, grateful for the distraction from her current set of problems.

* * *

><p>Hooray for conspiracies and even crazier Templars! We haven't even gotten to the good stuff yet, like dragon-controlling mages and Tevinter and, of course, our beloved horned friends from Par Vollen.<p> 


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